


The Repeated Image of the Lover Destroyed

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Series: crush [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Eating Disorder, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, PTSD, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, UST, child prostitution, mute!Sam, prostitute!sam, rape not between Sam and Lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 103,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is a prostitute. Lucifer owns the contract that keeps him in the brothel. There’s definitely something between them—but in their world, flesh comes at a price, and real happiness is far more difficult to keep intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/gifts).



> Massive shoutout to my fic director/beta/partner-in-crime, [Hil](http://kngfishergrl.tumblr.com), who originally came up with the idea for this fic, and who has been the greatest joy to work with as it has progressed. This fic would literally not be possible without you. Thank you so much for your patience and help in making this~ (Full-length thank you and fic explanation can be found [here](http://interstellarsam.tumblr.com/ficexplanation).) 
> 
> Sam is between sixteen and seventeen for the entirety of this fic. Lucifer is in his early forties. If you want to see what they both would look like, please click [here](http://interstellarsam.tumblr.com/victoriansam) (for Sam), or [here](http://interstellarsam.tumblr.com/victorianlucifer) (for Lucifer). 
> 
> Also, this fic was originally supposed to be steampunk, so any modern-day electronic appliances are supposed to be there. Title taken from a part of Richard Siken's _Crush_.

“You need more eyeshadow.”

Sam stares at Ava in the mirror. His face and hers both backlit by the sharp white glare of the steam-powered electric lights surrounding its frame. “You’re already using half the bottle,” he tells her, staring pointedly at the deep scrapes up from the bottom of the jar. The mess of sparkling green on her fingertips. 

“Well,” she says, but she has the grace to sound embarrassed. “Sam—I mean—they don’t want you looking like an _infant,_ you know.”

“Oh, wow, I thought that was the whole point of child prostitution,” Sam grumbles, and in the sheer white light Ava flushes further. 

Ruby snorts from where she’s standing off to the side, her arms folded across her chest, dark hair set strategically across her shoulders. “All that sarcasm,” she murmurs, “no wonder he still hates you,” and before Sam can bite back a retort, all scathing and nasty built up inside his chest like fire, Lucifer himself appears in the doorway. Tall—though Sam seems to be catching up with him, in small increments—and quiet and terrifying, the intensity of his eyes as he stares at Sam in the mirror’s reflection only a fraction of how it feels to face him head-on. 

Which Sam does, if reluctantly. Feeling Ava’s fingers sliding slow off his shoulders as she realizes she’s not going to get any more work done on him right now, and Sam sits forward in his chair a little and watches Lucifer watching him. All that dark, controlled power and cold lightning snapping just underneath his surface.

“Talking about me, I assume,” Lucifer says, and he’s addressing all of them but his eyes are only fixed on Sam’s.

“Don’t always talk about how self-centered you are, it’s unbecoming,” Sam mutters without thinking. Ava tenses behind him and Ruby makes a little noise at the back of her throat, but Lucifer just laughs. Sharp and not entirely amused, but Sam isn’t dead or being pinned to the nearest flat surface, either. So he counts it as a win. As opposed to

_(“This one, sir, this one’s full of fire. Could put him in the training room immediately, get him used to whips and chains on that tight little ass—”_

_“No.” Lucifer strokes his chin, staring amused down at Sam, where he’s being forced to kneel before him, shaking, the back of his head still aching in violent spasms from the blow he received earlier. Tear stains still drying on his cheeks but he knows Lucifer will be able to see none in his eyes. “No, bring him into my office. I’d like to see to him personally.”_

_“Fuck you,” Sam snarls, red-faced, furious, spitting at Lucifer’s feet, “fuck you!”_

_Lucifer slaps him, one stinging vicious hit to his cheek. Cruel malicious look in his eyes as he leans in, says, “You’ll have to come up with far more creative backtalk if you want to survive here.”)_

when Sam was twelve, and nothing in the world he said could keep him from getting hurt. 

“Are you done with him?” Lucifer asks Ava and Ruby.

“He needs—” Ava starts, and Lucifer levels her with a flat expression. 

“It wasn’t a question.” Dismissive and curt as he crooks a finger at Sam. “Come with me,” he says, and Sam slides out of the chair. Wearing black lace panties fitted snug against his hips, silken garter belts hooked to the edges of dark red fishnet stockings, and black leather heeled boots. His torso bare except for the white silk tie around his right forearm, indicating he’s a virgin and a newcomer at the auctions, and when Lucifer leads him out of the room Sam shivers at how cold it is in the hall. Goosebumps popping out all along his arms and shoulders, making his nipples harden, and Lucifer doesn’t disguise the way his eyes drift down. Hungry possessive look, but Sam’s used to it. Has been for years, now. 

“What do you want?” Sam asks, folding his arms across his chest and flicking his hair out of his eyes. Wishing they’d let him at least trim the ends, it’s getting so long, but the boys with longer hair rake in more money, and Sam’s been so on the cusp of his first auction recently that there hasn’t been any point in asking.

Lucifer narrows his eyes. Gaze traveling up the line of Sam’s neck, across his face. He reaches out, brushes a few strands of Sam’s hair back over his forehead. “They like a touch of innocence, at least,” he says, and Sam narrows his eyes.

“So I’m assuming my apparent age isn’t going to clue them in—” But he’s shaking, not from the cold anymore, as Lucifer’s hand slides from his forehead to his jaw. Clamping his mouth shut by pushing up just a little, and he says:

“Your mouth is going to get you in so much trouble one day, Sam.”

Sam glares until Lucifer releases him. Steps back a little and snarls, “You aren’t supposed to lay claim on any of us before the auctions. Rules apply to everyone, Lucifer.”

“Yes, they do.” Lucifer’s mouth is tight at the corners, betraying his irritation. “Which is what I need to talk to you about.” 

Sam watches his fists clench at his side for a second, his eyes cutting to the side, and he takes another instinctive step backwards. Thinks about giving him some line about not wanting to damage the merchandise so close to payment time, but he doesn’t. He’s tired and that stupid eyeshadow is making his skin itch. So he just raises his eyebrows, waits. 

“The impression you make today is important,” Lucifer tells him, after a little while. “How you show yourself to these people reflects on what kind of a sell you want to make.”

“Yeah, or it reflects on how good you trained me,” Sam mutters.

“How _well_ I trained you,” Lucifer snaps. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking. You want to impress the clients and show them you’re _worth_ something.” His eyes cut across Sam’s body again, settling on the white band on his arm, and Sam flushes despite his best efforts. “Virginity’s going to make you desirable, but you’re older than most of my kids at these auctions. You need to let them know you’re still _young_ —”

“Again, I’m not really sure how they could miss that—”

Lucifer’s eyes slide shut. He takes in a deep breath, jaw clenched tight. “Sam,” he says, voice tense. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Thought you liked when I’m sarcastic.”

“I think it’s rude and insolent and disrespectful, and I don’t know how I haven’t beaten it out of you yet.”

Sam smirks. “You’re using synonyms. You just said the same word three times in different ways, and you’re shitting on me because I said ‘good’ instead of ‘well’—”

“Sam.” Lucifer breathes out once, short sharp puff of air through his nostrils. “I’ll ask you one more time. Stop. Your snark isn’t going to get you anywhere good with my clients. You don’t want to present yourself as available to someone who will take your arrogant childish nature as a challenge.”

Sam drops his arms, not really thinking, and cants his hip to the side. “I thought they liked a challenge,” he says, but Lucifer is shaking his head.

“Not—listen. My clients can make or break my children. You aren’t going to want to get stuck with someone cruel, simply because you couldn’t keep your mouth _shut_ —”

_“Okay!”_ Sam’s almost shouting in the face of Lucifer’s tense quiet rage. Doesn’t even realize Lucifer’s reached out and grabbed his wrist until he feels the bones shifting under someone else’s fingers, and he winces. “Ah. Jesus Christ, Lucifer. _Okay._ I get it. I won’t be rude. I’ll keep my mouth shut—or, I guess, I’ll keep _quiet,_ I know they like to see our lips parted—”

“Sam—”

“Silence. Right. Got it.” Sam glares at him ruefully, and Lucifer drops his wrist. Letting Sam rub at it and stare, waiting to see if the pain will turn into bruises. Wondering if he could wrap his virginity cloth around those bones, instead, if it did.

The door at the end of the hall, the one that leads into the parlor, clicks open, and Hannah sticks her head around the frame. “Five minutes until the show starts,” she says, and Lucifer nods once. Steps back from Sam, expression shuttering off. Going from annoyed and borderline-angry to cool, flat. Neutral, and Sam watches the nothing steal into his eyes, until it’s as if there were no emotions there at all. 

“Behave yourself,” Lucifer tells him, moving towards the door. “You’re a full-time whore, now.”

~

The auction is a three-day ordeal. The wealthiest clients come to the brothel and spend the first two days walking through the suites, the youngest kids’ rooms, and the pleasure gardens outside, looking for kids they might want to buy off. The third day is generally reserved for final offers and a massive banquet in the dining hall, but Sam doesn’t know much about that part. Not yet, anyway. 

There’s a certain hierarchy to the whole thing. There’s the youngest kids, the newest batches. The ones that have just barely hit puberty. Fresh and untouched and Lucifer keeps them all in one long suite of rooms until auction day, only letting them out to do things like wait tables and dance. Won’t let anyone damage their skin before someone wealthy is willing to pay for it. 

And someone is always willing to pay for the prettiest ones. The ones with the smoothest skin and the bell-like laughter and the seductive glint in their young eyes. The girls who get air-brushed and made-up for hours on auction day by Ava. The boys who can pull off eyeshadow and rouge, who wear nothing more than a lace thong and a leather corset as they drape themselves neatly into the curtains and rock up, cocks straining half-hard against the g-strings, pubic hair barely even sprouting but the clients eat it up. Toss in pound after sick pound and Lucifer cashes it all in. More money to feed the business for another three hundred and sixty-five days. 

After those kids come the next-levels. Kids Sam’s age, like Drew and Lily and Sarah. Already sold into what they all privately refer to as the fucking rooms, spreading their legs every night for someone new, someone starved and lonely and desperate. Sleeping until noon, then coiffing their own hair, doing their own makeup. Wandering down to the kitchens for a quick bite to eat before the first clients of the afternoon start showing up. Some of them are dancers and waiters too, but most of them are just. Trying to get up in the ranks, by that point. Trying to fuck their way into better social classes. So that, if they haven’t already been bought for private use by a client, they might get there. Or they might be given better stations at the brothel itself. 

Brady got taken in by a client when they were all still just fourteen. Now he doesn’t even fuck other clients when Bartholomew can’t make it, just wanders through the parlor in the evenings and flirts and charms and keeps his lace stockings on all night. Sam’s seen the looks he gets, jealous and longing, when he’s curving his fingers down the thigh of some rich client with no aim at having his mouth on his cock later, no anticipation of his tongue slipped into the wet heat of a forty-six year old cunt. 

After Sam’s age group there are slightly older teenagers, closer to adults. Madison, and Amelia, who do makeup with Ava when they aren’t bending over backwards on some rich mahogany desk. Ruby, who manages most of the dancers, doesn’t really fuck casual anymore. Meg, who assists Lilith; Hannah, who assists Abaddon. They’re all going to be madams, all training for it. Either worked their parents’ debts off years ago but decided to stay on, or they came later, working off debts of their own. 

Which really is what it all boils down to. Debt, and the money the brothel can gain from it. Most of the kids Sam knows are there because their parents needed to get out of a bad situation, or because they were hooked on something—drugs, gambling—and needed refuge so they wouldn’t get sent to jail. Sam’s orphanage sold him—well, really, Lucifer was _looking,_ but. Sam knows the orphanage he was staying at would’ve sold him here anyway, if Lucifer hadn’t shown up first—

_(Sam at six, watching terrified as his house goes up in flames. John standing behind him, hands on his shoulders. Dean directly to his right, numb and shivering despite the heat blasting off the burning wood._

_“We’re all each other has, kiddo,” John tells him, then._

_Sam at eight, watching John slam his fists into a man’s face in a bar. “I **won** that money, you fucking piece of **shit** —”_

_Sam at ten, his father in the Black Mariah. Hands clasped, the gun wrenched from his sweating fingers. “You get away from my sons!” he yells through the bars as the carriage clips off. Big men coming behind Sam and Dean—_

_—Sam wrenched from Dean, screaming—_

_—Sam slammed into the backseat of a steam-powered car, driven away—_

_Sam at twelve, bruised and bloody in the back of the orphanage. All on his own, fingers aching from the last time he broke Vincent’s nose, and the orphanage head is all too happy to lead Lucifer right into his room. Cool-eyed and appraising, amused tilt to his mouth as he looks, and Sam stares at him, heated. Watches the money change hands and Sam is torn from stability yet again—)_

But there are worse places Sam could be. Worse than the brothel, where he gets food when he wants it, a bed, a whole library full of books he can choose from. Worse than a place like this, where he’s ignored for the most part by everyone—well, until now. Worse than Lucifer’s grudging respect

_(“He’s thirteen, sir. You’ve had kids working the staterooms who’re younger than he is. You can’t keep—”_

_“I will do whatever I please with the people that work for me, and right now, I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t want to be one of those people anymore—”_

_“Oh, no. No, sir.” Backing away, hands clasped together. Sam watching narrow-eyed and suspicious from a corner as Lucifer stares the manservant down until he’s gone. Turns to Sam, his fingers clenched tight around the edge of his desk, and he snaps:_

_“Get out of my office before I change my mind.”)_

earned only because Sam refused to back down. Refused to give in to Lucifer, the way everyone else here has. 

Oh, yes, there are definitely worse places to be. Sam isn’t a stranger to poverty. To filth and cold and sickness, because John drank all their money for the week and they ended up in the poorhouse for a while. 

He just wishes Lucifer wasn’t such an asshole. Then he could be genuinely grateful for everything Lucifer has provided, and maybe he could think of a way to show it without having to spread his legs. 

~

“What’re you doin’ here?” 

Sam glances over. There’s a kid from the youngest batch standing next to him in the parlor, white virginity armband secured tight around her left arm. Fiddling nervously with the hem of her lace skirt, and Sam can tell without having to look too close that her corset has been stuffed. Both of them standing a little off to the side, Sam because he’s taller and older than any of the courtesans getting sold and he 

_(can’t stand this shit first time he’s ever been so exposed and not on stage dancing god why didn’t someone **warn** him)_

wants to give the younger kids a chance at getting bought first. So they can get out of here faster. The girl just looks scared.

“I’m doing the same thing you’re doing,” Sam tells her, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. 

“You’re kind of— _old,”_ she tells him. 

“Came here late,” he lies, slotting a finger through one of the hoops on his fishnet stockings. He’s had enough experience with being known as “Lucifer’s favorite slut” in the past to understand it’s better to just say that he’s new. Instead of trying to get into the convoluted twisted specifics of he and Lucifer’s—relationship. Especially since Sam doesn’t exactly understand it, himself.

She bites her lip, staring across the room. There’s a group of older men there, wearing suits and top hats, and they’re all eyeing Sam and the girl. Leering, and Sam feels his nostrils flare in irritation. 

_(behave yourself)_

“They like us, I think,” the girl says, her voice coming out all shaky though Sam can tell she’s trying to sound enthused about it. She pushes her chest out a little, flutters her eyelashes. She’s wearing eyeshadow too, pastel blue, and Sam wonders if Ava did hers before or after she did his.

One of the men pushes himself off the wall. Heads over to where Sam and the girl are standing, and Sam’s close enough to feel her trembling as he approaches. Despite the smile that stays pasted on her mouth as he tucks his fat fingers under her chin, turns her head to the left and right.

“Pretty whore,” he says, sneering, and Sam watches her spine stiffen slightly.

“D’you like what you see, sir,” she asks, and his tongue runs out over his lower lip as he nods. 

Then his gaze turns on Sam. “Another virgin,” he observes, eyes dropping from Sam’s armband to his garters. The flex and pull of his calf muscles where they disappear into his boots. “Ain’t you a bit old for auctioning day, son?” he asks, his hand moving from the girl’s chin to Sam’s shoulder, stroking the skin there.

Sam has to grit his teeth, hard, to keep his mouth clamped around the words building up in his throat. “I’m new here,” he grinds out, and the man smirks. Nods once, and takes a step back from them. 

“I think I’ll take both of you,” he says, arms folded. Lifts a hand to gesture at his companions, but then:

“The boy’s not for sale.” Voice coming from the shadows, sinuous and tight with control, and Sam’s heart lurches for a second before he realizes it isn’t Lucifer stepping into the light. 

The man frowns. “Boy’s on the parlor floor during auction, seems to me—”

“Seems to me you need to learn how to listen,” Azazel interrupts, walking forward. Until he’s just a few steps behind the fat man, smirking at Sam, those _eyes_ —

_(Sam waiting tables on a long evening sometime in March. The tight waiters’ uniform clinging to his body: black lace underwear and a fitted corset. Little white apron over his front, not doing much to conceal the line of his cock. Night after night, putting up with the groping and the catcalls and the lewd suggestions as he bends over clients’ tables to take their food back to the kitchens._

_Lucifer eyeing him from across the room where he sits at the head table. Gaze fixed hungry and wanton on Sam’s ass, exposed pale and round in his thong. Sam can feel him track his every movement as he walks across the dining hall, every step he takes, bouncing a little because he’s still not quite used to these heels._

_Azazel eyeing Sam, too. Possessive and intent and Sam tries not to shiver when they make eye contact, pretending he doesn’t see the way Lucifer and Azazel glare at each other when Sam passes near either of their tables—_

_And then, one night. Sam bends over Lucifer’s table to get his plate, scraped empty, and Lucifer’s fingers find the lace ties on his corset. Sam goes completely still, all at once. Feeling Lucifer’s fingers cold and rough on his skin as he undoes the careful knot, brushes his hand against the new patch of exposed skin._

_“I like that,” Lucifer tells him, meeting his gaze head-on. All fire and burning and crackling energy, and Sam has to work at suppressing his shiver. “Do you, Sam?”_

_“‘s all right,” Sam mutters, flushed from his sternum up, and Lucifer laughs, sends him off._

_But it happens again. And again. Until every time Sam goes to Lucifer’s table, he expects something on his body to be touched. Hair ruffled, corset untied, apron flipped up, exposing the tight fabric around his barely concealed cock. Underwear tugged partway off his hip, garters snapped open._

_Each time, Sam watches Lucifer’s face. The sneer as he touches Sam, never looking away from Azazel. Something challenging in his expression, predatory and terrifying. Marking Sam as his own without actually bruising his skin, or paying money to take him to his bed. Azazel glaring the whole time, furious and trembling in his seat._

_Once, Sam goes in and Lucifer is distracted by a client arranging something with one of the dancers. He moves around the room on unsteady legs, serving and enduring and clenching his teeth under his smile, until he gets to Azazel’s table. Azazel, who doesn’t work for the brothel, but stays at it almost constantly. Azazel, who gives more money to Lucifer than any of the other clients, but never seems to work. Azazel, who everyone hates. Even the most vicious madams, like Lilith or Abaddon._

_“Ah, Sammy boy,” Azazel says, catching Sam’s lace tassels, drawing him in. Sliding one hand over his hip, drawing his panties down. Using the other to reach up and start untying Sam’s corset laces, breath coming warm and wet over Sam’s bare skin, and—_

_There’s a soft rough sound from behind them. Barely audible over the chatter and music but Sam hears it anyway. Turns his head partially over his shoulder, hardly aware of Azazel’s hand on his chest as he watches Lucifer watching him. Seated now after his transaction, his fingers wrapped so hard around his wine glass they’ve gone white. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Something dark and overheated in his gaze and Sam feels a rush in the pit of his stomach, prickling heat slipped like lightning down his spine. Jolting down between his legs, and he’s ashamed and aroused by turns, but he can’t look away._

_Azazel makes an interested noise. “This for me?” he asks, only a little mocking, and Sam’s not even paying attention to whatever it is he’s talking about until. Until his hand slips down between Sam’s thighs. Grips his half-hard cock, thumb stroking over the head, and Sam jerks back like he’s been burned._

_“You little tease—” Azazel starts, staring incredulous at Sam, rising halfway to his feet, but Lucifer’s there already. Mouth a thin white line, hand on Sam’s shoulder, pulling him away._

_“You don’t touch the courtesans prior to their auction day,” he says, and his voice is cool. Disinterested, except for the way his fingers are trembling minutely on Sam’s shoulder. “Surely you must be aware of that rule after all this time, Mr. Lehne—”_

_“Of course.” Azazel sits back, hands raised. Placating and almost smiling, his eyes hard on Lucifer’s own. “My apologies.”_

You were touching me, too, _Sam wants to say to Lucifer, but doesn’t. Just lets Lucifer stand there for a moment, thumb digging into his shoulder blade as he stares Azazel down._

_He says, “Sam will be worth a good deal of money by auction day.”_

_“I believe it,” Azazel murmurs, hand on his crotch, and Sam has to look away.)_

“What,” the client’s saying now, half-laughing, “has he been promised to you or something?”

Azazel doesn’t take his eyes off Sam’s. “Yes,” he says, and Sam shudders, feeling the visceral weight of Azazel’s eyes on his chest. His cock. 

“Hey, if he’s in here, he’s still fair game—”

“He belongs to _me,”_ Azazel snarls, and the noise around them dims just slightly.

Then the door to the parlor opens. Lucifer wandering in, easy languid stride, all slow and lazy and powerful, and he flicks his gaze over to Sam almost immediately, blue eyes sparkling in the gas lamps dotting the walls. Something dangerous and shadowed crosses his face as he looks from Sam to Azazel, there and gone again in an instant, and he calls:

“Sam, you’re done.”

Sam can’t tell from Lucifer’s expression if he should be wary or relieved. Steps forward, trying to avoid touching Azazel, and he says, “I’m sorry?”

“You’re finished,” Lucifer says. “You’re out of the auction. You’ve had an offer made for you.” His mouth is tense, arms folded tight and unwelcoming across the broad span of his chest. “Go wait in your dorm.” 

“Oh.” Sam sort of stumbles backwards, the heels catching on themselves and nearly tripping him face-first onto the carpet. They’re all staring at him, everyone in the parlor. Impatient, because he’s distracting them from their hunt for young flesh; but hungry, too. Azazel most of all, desirous and grinning, and Sam’s stomach is churning by the time he makes it out of the parlor and up the stairs.

~

The next two days of the auction go by fast. Sam stays holed up in his dorm, the stretch of rooms he shares with four other kids: Drew, Sarah, Cassie, and Brady, when he’s not with Bartholomew. Mostly trying to sleep as much as he can, to not think about the girl he stood with in the parlor. That man’s thick fingers on her skin, on her heaving chest. Sam wonders if he bought her yet. If she’s still wearing that white armband, or if it’s been discarded in an incineration tube somewhere, or left on top of her small pile of clothing. 

He keeps waiting for someone to come take him. To spread his knees and fuck into him, pounding and leaving a dent in the wall behind the headboard. Doesn’t really get as much sleep as he’d like, keeps startling at the smallest noises behind the door. His throat thick with fear that his buyer is Azazel, and he can’t decide whether it would be worse if it _wasn’t._ Can’t decide why no one has come for him, in all this time, scenarios spilling over in his brain as he considers each of the possibilities. 

On the final day of the auction, long after the brothel has quieted down. Long after the sun has slipped below the horizon and the moon’s risen up on its path across the sky, there’s a knock at the door. 

Sam tenses. “Yeah,” he calls, and then bites clean through his lower lip. Taste of blood exploding in his mouth as he remembers _politeness, don’t be rude, don’t give short answers,_ and thinks that if it’s his buyer come to collect, Sam is already fucked. 

But when the door opens it’s only Hannah. “Sam,” she says, and, “Lucifer wants to see you in his office.”

Sam feels his eyebrows crease over his nose. “Why—”

“He just told me to come get you.” She shrugs, steps back. Fingers drumming against the side of the wall, and Sam knows Lucifer doesn’t like to be kept waiting. 

He slips off his bed, follows her out. He’s changed since the auction, wearing his casual clothes again, soft trousers and a loose-fitting tunic, and he doesn’t miss the way everyone _stares_ as he and Hannah head down the corridors of the brothel. Envious and hateful of Sam, though he doesn’t understand Lucifer’s favoritism any more than they do, and he ducks his head, hurries on. Until they get to Lucifer’s office. First floor, behind the parlor and the smoking room—cigarettes only, opium use reserved for the second floor. Hannah knocks on Lucifer’s door and he calls come in immediately, and Sam goes.

Lucifer is sitting behind his desk. One leg crossed over the other, ankle touching knee. His fingers steepled against each other, elbows resting on the lacquered wood. 

“We appear to be at an impasse, Sam,” he says, mouth just moving against his hands.

Sam swallows. Tucks his lower lip in against his teeth. “Not my fault I haven’t fucked anyone yet,” he mutters. “No one ever came and got me—” 

“That isn’t what this is about,” Lucifer interrupts. Voice taut, rough. He looks like he wants to scrape his hands down his face. Tired and worn, as close to human as Sam has ever seen him. “Not really.”

“Okay, so what—”

“Azazel has offered to pay off all your debts,” Lucifer says. “He came to me a few days before the auction and asked if he could become your exclusive client. Purchase you entirely, own you, claim your body as his—however you want it worded, Sam. He knows what you’re worth—and believe me, it’s quite a lot—and he’s willing to pay it all so he can have you for himself.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and kind of has to sit down for a second. His legs gone shaky and unsupportive beneath him, chest tightening in sudden terror. Snippets of what he’s heard about Azazel before

_(fucks so rough especially with virgins—likes pain a lot, like, more than the average client—no boundaries—)_

clanging around in his head, making it hard for him to hear Lucifer speaking, still: 

“You’d still live here, but it would be like Brady’s set up with his client—”

“I don’t want him,” Sam blurts. The words barreling out before he can stop them, forcing themselves up through his clogged throat and making him wince. Half-expecting to be struck, to be slammed into the wall and reminded of his place here.

Lucifer regards him, amused. “You don’t want him?”

Sam’s whole face is bright red. The heat painful where it’s slathered into his cheeks, but he shakes his head anyway. Nothing left to lose, now. “No.”

“He’d be your sole owner,” Lucifer says. His eyebrows raised slightly, curious expression on his face. “You wouldn’t have to spread your legs for ten, fifteen different men every night. And he’d pay off your debts, all of them, all at once—”

_But it’s **Azazel** ,_ Sam thinks. 

Out loud: “I just—no. I won’t, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s amused expression gives way to something a little darker, a little more impatient. “You have to perform your duties sometimes, Sam,” he snaps. “The debt your orphanage left isn’t going to go away—”

“This can’t be the only option,” Sam says. Desperate. Almost pleading. Shaken by how much he doesn’t want to go to bed with Azazel every night. To be stretched out underneath him, their cocks rubbing together as Azazel _ruts_ like an animal—

“There’s gotta be something else,” Sam says, his hands clenched hard against his thighs. Shaking so bad in the chair that it’s started to rattle against the hardwood floor.

Lucifer is quiet for a long time, watching Sam. Both of them staring across the desk at each other, Sam’s heart pounding so hard in his chest that he thinks it might fly out. He can’t believe Lucifer hasn’t blacked him out already, sent him off to Azazel. Can hardly believe Lucifer is even listening to him.

“There is another option,” Lucifer says, finally. The corners of his mouth lifting, but it isn’t a friendly smile. 

“Okay,” Sam says. “What is it?”

Lucifer untwines his fingers from each other. Arms folded down across the desk, he leans over until he’s almost in Sam’s personal space. His eyes cold and hard and _daring_ Sam to say anything contradictory as he tells him:

“You can be mine, instead.” 

Sam tells himself he doesn’t understand why the idea of belonging to Lucifer sends chills arching up his spine. “I. You. You’re kidding, right?”

Lucifer raises one eyebrow.

Sam snorts out a laugh. Derisive and sarcastic without meaning to be, just the way he is around Lucifer, like he brings out Sam’s absolute worst traits. “You _hate_ me, Lucifer,” Sam says, kinda incredulous. Though he thinks they both know that isn’t quite true. 

“You think any of the other clients here love the whores they stick it in?” Lucifer asks. 

Sam swears he feels the blood draining out of his face. “Oh, god, you’re serious.”

Lucifer stands. Walks halfway around the desk, his head tilted a little to the right. “You didn’t want Azazel paying your dues, Sam. I can put you back up for auction next year but until then, you need someone to start helping you give back. I can’t keep you here on charity forever.”

“Oh, is that what this is,” Sam says without thinking. His voice shaking a little, and he watches trapped as Lucifer comes to stand in front of him. Jerking his chin up, and Sam rises as if pulled by some invisible string. As if his body wants to obey Lucifer’s commands on instinct. 

Lucifer says, “Thought I told you to watch that mouth of yours,” hand coming out in the small space between them to tuck against Sam’s jaw. Running a thumb over Sam’s lower lip, pressing in a little, and Sam shivers. His eyes sliding shut, throat jerking as he swallows. 

“I’ve owned you from the moment they signed your release papers at the orphanage,” Lucifer tells him. “Same as I own all my children here. But you. You’ve always been— _different,_ haven’t you, Sam.” 

Their bodies are so close Sam can feel the heat radiating off Lucifer, despite the fact that his skin is unnaturally cool. “Charity or ownership, make up your mind,” he mumbles, and Lucifer’s grip tightens just slightly. His thumb skidding down Sam’s chin, and he whispers:

“Open your eyes.”

Sam does, and Lucifer is _right there,_ the intensity of his gaze staggering. Overwhelming, so much so that Sam falters a little. 

“Look at me,” Lucifer commands. His eyes blazing, glittering like so much stardust. Sam trembling under his hand when he says, “This is my final offer, Sam. Do you want to belong to me?”

_(“I’m not a whore,” Sam snarls. His skinny fists raised in retaliation as he faces off the angry blond kid who just punched his right eye. “This place is a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”_

_“You walked through the front doors, you’re as much a slut as the rest of us, you pretentious **shit** —”_

_“Oh, please, Brady, he hasn’t even fucked anyone yet,” one of the girls snorts, mocking, from the sidelines._

_Brady’s eyes drop up and down Sam’s thin frame, and he’s only been here for six months but he knows what that glint in his eyes means. “That’s only what they’re telling you,” he says. “Sam’s prolly been sitting on cock since the night he got here.”_

_“I haven’t!”_

_“Dancer, too, I know,” Brady sneers, reaching down and pinching the slowly growing muscle on Sam’s calves. “Doing splits every night for all those people—”_

_Sam is shaking. “Shut up.”_

_“If it walks like a whore, spreads its legs like a whore—”_

_“That’s enough.” Lucifer’s voice, coming in from the hallway. Wandering in, casual, his eyes flicking from Brady to Sam to their audience, and the other kids at least have the decency to look embarrassed as they shuffle backwards._

_“House rules, Brady,” Lucifer says, and his voice is soft. Almost gentle, but Sam hears the current of held-back fury running just underneath. “No one mars my dancers.”_

_Then he hands Sam a bottle of salve, scented vanilla and lavender. “Put this on,” he snaps, already turning away. “You have a show in forty-five minutes.”_

_They hate him, afterwards. And Sam spends years wondering if they’d have felt any different had they known Lucifer hit Sam, too, when he thought he deserved it. Marked bruises where no one could see with his right hand, but offered Sam ointment with his left.)_

Sam takes in a breath. Exhales slow, shaky. His mouth working against Lucifer’s tight grip, remembering pain but he’s also seen gentleness, and his voice is steady when he says:

“Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s paperwork. Not a lot, because Lucifer owns the brothel, can skip a lot of the hoops the other patrons have to jump through, but. Some. Enough to give Sam another two-day reprieve from anything. Holed up in his dorm, stretched out on the bed with his legs tucked under the blanket, a book propped up against his thighs. Sarah coming in, or Drew, or Cassie, just to glare at him. _Pet,_ they snarl, jealous and hateful. _Little fucktoy,_ and Sam strokes his thumb over the seal on the back of the book. Golden marking that indicates it belongs to Lucifer, subtle reminder that it’s just another _gift_ from him, and he can’t even deny what they’re saying. 

He hears from Ruby that Azazel is _pissed._ That he came storming into Lucifer’s office the day after Lucifer purchased Sam for himself, yelling about promises and money laid down in advance, and that Lucifer had just. Calmly handed Azazel his pounds in a sealed envelope, didn’t even look up from the document he was signing. Gestured at the door and Gadreel escorted Azazel out, face contorted in an ugly snarl. Growling low threats under his breath about revenge, but no one’s paying much attention to Azazel, right now. 

When Lucifer comes to get Sam, it’s the middle of the day. Everyone else is either sleeping off the previous night or getting ready for the afternoon shift, and Sam’s fumbling his way through the German translation of Coleridge’s _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,_ hand in his hair, when he feels it. Electric violent current coming from the doorway, something powerful and raw filling the whole room, and he turns, and there’s Lucifer. 

“Get your things,” Lucifer says. “You’ll be living in my suite, now.”

Sam presses his thumb down on the centerfold of his book, closes his eyes. “So I guess it’s time to start paying off my debts,” and he’s surprised to find that he’s _nervous._ Physically shaken at the idea of sex, despite the fact that he’s had two days to prepare for this. Five, really, counting the auction, and Sam’s known for years that this is what he was destined for, that going on his back and opening his legs has been his ultimate fate since he was twelve, and yet. 

But Lucifer doesn’t nod. Doesn’t do anything, really, except stand there and _stare._ Heat and vague undertones of possession in his eyes but there’s nothing in his posture, in the way he leans against the doorway, to suggest that he’s going to slam Sam against the nearest flat surface and start fucking. It’s disconcerting and strange and it confuses Sam worse than the idea of sex, and he’s shaking when he stands, starts packing. Only relaxes when he becomes aware of Lucifer’s gaze on his lower back, traveling down the curve of his ass, but even then. Even then, nothing happens, aside from Lucifer’s curt:

“Hurry up, Sam, I have a schedule to keep,” and Sam throws his clothes in the bag. His books and his favored top sheet and then they head upstairs together. Through Lilith’s suite of rooms, all soft light pastel colors; and Abaddon’s, dark reds and blacks, scent of blood in the air. Until they get to the very top floor, where Lucifer resides alone. 

There’s a bathroom on one end of the suite, flanked on each end by rooms. The other end is just two doors, separated by a thin strip of wall, and Lucifer waves a hand at the one on the left.

“You’re going to sleep in there,” he says. “I’m in the one next door, and trust me, Sam—” He lowers his voice in pitch. Takes a step closer, and then another, until Sam can smell the lust rising off his skin. “If you bring _anyone_ back to these rooms, I will know.”

Sam grits his teeth. Opens his mouth to snap at Lucifer, to ask him when exactly has he ever been given the opportunity to fuck anyone _anyway,_ but by the time he draws breath Lucifer is already turning, heading for the stairs again. 

“Wait,” Sam calls, without thinking, and Lucifer pauses mid-step. His spine going stiff, shoulders tense, like he’s surprised Sam spoke.

“Aren’t you gonna—I mean. Haven’t you been waiting all morning to get your cock in my ass?” Trying for seductive, the way Sam’s heard the older prostitutes talk to their favored clients, but it comes out too tight. Too much like Sam’s trying not to throw up all over the five-thousand pound carpet under his bare feet, and Lucifer only snorts a huff of barely-amused laughter before shaking his head and heading out of the suite, shutting the door behind him. Leaving Sam alone in an unfamiliar room, gripping a bag full of the only things he owns in the world, and all of them really belong to Lucifer. 

Honestly, Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting. 

~

It’s strange, how little changes. At least at first. Lucifer still leaves Sam alone, the way he has for nearly the full duration of Sam’s stay at the brothel. Still has him dancing in the evenings, waiting tables, wearing the familiar tight uniform and flushed all over when Lucifer meets his eyes across the smoke-filled dining hall. This weird tension growing taut between them, snapping and crackling almost audibly, until Sam jerks his gaze away. 

The first night, after Sam’s shift has ended, he moves upstairs on shaking, exhausted legs. Expecting—he’s not sure what, but certainly not to find Lucifer’s door already shut. A note on Sam’s pillow: _try not to make too much noise when you shower,_ and that’s it. Sam takes his time under the hot water spray, keeps anticipating Lucifer to push the curtain back and join him, but it never happens. The water sluicing across his sore muscles, through the thick tangles of his hair, and Sam can’t figure out if he’s relieved or disappointed.

About a week after Sam’s signed on as Lucifer’s consort, they bring in a whole new wardrobe for him. Sam already owns clothes, enough to cram into his tiny closet in his new room, but the fabrics come in for him anyway. Colorful and soft and plentiful, silks and cottons and lace carried through the parlor and up the stairs. Scarves and sweaters and trousers for the winter, loose-fitting tunics and shorts for the summer. A few things like tights and corsets, several pairs of thin lace underwear, but for the most part it’s just. Civilian clothes, the kind that usually only the highest-up prostitutes are allowed, and Sam feels so many hard eyes on him. So much anger and jealousy burning in the room as they glare, and whisper, and point. 

“The sex must just be _incredible,”_ Cecily snarls, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Dressed in a black corset and garter belt, white poof frills around the edges, and Sam stares at the hatred in her eyes and wishes he could tell her she looks nice, too. “You must ride him every night or something, I mean—why the fuck else would he be giving _you_ shit? It’s not like you’ve ever _done_ anything here—”

“Cecily, there’s a gentleman asking for you,” Ruby calls from the doorway. Her eyes flat, neutral, but she shoots Sam a look as she leads Cecily away from the room. One eyebrow quirked, glancing towards the kitchen, and Sam shuffles out fast under her distraction. Surprised once he’s alone at how hard he’s shaking, his fists clenched at his sides and he realizes he’s _angry._

Because it isn’t as if he’s _asking_ Lucifer for any of this. Isn’t as if he _wants_ Lucifer to spend this much money on him when he hasn’t even—when he hasn’t—

It hits Sam like a freight train, what Lucifer’s doing, and he stumbles out of the kitchen fast. Ignoring Inias’ indignant shout behind him, and he slams through the back door and into the corridor that separates the kitchen from the dining hall. Dimly lit and usually bare at this time of day, and Sam knows Lucifer likes to conduct business transactions here for that very reason. Away from his office, which he claims is too close to the noise-filled gaming hall for his tastes, and Sam is. Honestly kind of shocked he even _knows_ that, but. It doesn’t _matter,_ right now.

Lucifer is in the corridor, near the thick curtain that leads into the dining hall. Discussing something in low tones with an older woman, clutching her pearl necklace tight in her wrinkled hand, and Sam feels nausea rise up in his stomach. The thought suddenly occurring to him that if Lucifer hadn’t bought him, he’d be fucking people like her on afternoons like this. 

He must make a little noise at the back of his throat, because her gaze snaps to him. Amused expression crossing her face, and she says, “Well, Luci, I think you have a little guest.”

Lucifer raises an eyebrow at Sam, who flares his nostrils in response. Impatient annoyed gesture that isn’t lost on Lucifer, who bites a smile into the inside of his cheek before turning back to the client. 

“I’ll speak to you later,” he tells her, and she nods once. Heads down the way Sam came, brushing past him as she goes. Soaked in wine and perfume and money, the hoops under her skirt rustling too loud in the close hall, and a shudder rails uncomfortable and hard down Sam’s spine. So that he almost forgets what he came here for, until Lucifer touches his shoulder. His eyes sparking dark and amused in the half light, and Sam grits his teeth against the bolt of lust that spears him at that _look._

“You wanted me, Sam?” Lucifer asks, and oh, _god._ The way he says it. Like he’s expecting. Like he thinks Sam wants to get bent over the desk in his office and.

“I needed to tell you something,” Sam says, steeling his voice against the tremors in his chest.

Lucifer smirks. Leans against the opposite wall, not much space between them, the way his hips are canted out. Arms folded across his chest, all predatory and wanting. “By all means,” he says.

“Okay, I get why you hate when I’m sarcastic now, could you _stop_ —”

Lucifer actually laughs, sharp and almost surprised. “My apologies, Sam,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to Sam’s mouth, and Sam flushes. His fingers flexing hard against the wall at his back, and he’s glad it’s so dark in here. 

“I.” Sam swallows. Suddenly feels ridiculous, standing here like this. His chest almost plastered to Lucifer’s, breathing too hard and too loud in this enclosed space, and he swears he can feel Lucifer’s heart beating through his shirt. “You sent me _clothes,_ Lucifer.”

“Ah, did those arrive today?”

“Yeah, and I—”

Lucifer’s eyes drop from Sam’s mouth to his chest. His crotch. “You aren’t wearing them.”

“No, I’m wearing more clothes you bought me a couple months ago—” 

“I bought those?” Lucifer drags his gaze back up to Sam’s, his mouth twisted at the corners, like he’s trying not to laugh again. “I didn’t have very good taste a few months ago, did I—”

“I know what you’re doing,” Sam interrupts. Sharp and too loud, but it gets Lucifer to shut up, at least. Lifting both eyebrows this time, sliding his arms from his chest to hang loose at his sides.

“And what exactly would that be, Sam?” With one hand coming up to adjust the collar of Sam’s shirt, so that it fits more in the middle of his chest. Dropped right under the visibly beating pulse of his heart in his throat.

Sam takes in a deep breath. The cool rough scrape of Lucifer’s fingers on his skin distracting him, the way it always does. “You’re trying to buy me into your bed, aren’t you.”

Lucifer’s hand stills on his chest. His thumb settled right over Sam’s sternum, and Sam is suddenly very aware that he might have said the wrong thing. 

“I’m trying to—” Lucifer starts, voice a cross between confused and irritated, and Sam blurts:

“You think if you spend a shitton of money on me, buying me really nice clothes and books and stuff—you think that’ll make it easier to get me to fuck you, or something. Isn’t that—”

But Lucifer’s laughing too hard for Sam to finish his sentence. Hand sliding off Sam’s chest and he backs up, head tossed against the wall, shoulders shaking. Hand coming up to cover his eyes, to wipe the tears from their corners, and Sam feels flushed and stupid and as angry as he did five minutes ago, upstairs in the kitchen when the kids in the parlor had just been accusing him of whoring himself out for extra gifts. 

_“What?”_ he snaps, when enough time has gone by and the sound of Lucifer’s amusement is grating against his ears. “What the fuck is so fucking _funny,_ Lucifer—”

Lucifer reaches up, then. Wipes his eyes with the back of his hand one last time, and his expression falls back into something more serious. Not quite dangerous, but. It’s always there, with Lucifer. Simmering just below the surface, and Sam thinks he could tread in his socks, on tiptoe, and still be in danger of breaking the ice. 

“You,” Lucifer tells him. “The fact that you think you have that much power. That you could make me resort to buying fine things for you so I could fuck you.” His hand comes up, tangles into Sam’s shirt again. Tugs him forward, so that their bodies are flush against each other, Sam’s legs slotted with Lucifer’s. His hands pressed on instinct against the wall, parallel with Lucifer’s hips, and Lucifer is just. _Holding_ him there. _Owning_ him, the way he’s contractually allowed to do.

“If I wanted to fuck you, Sam,” Lucifer says. Voice very low, now, very quiet. Deeper than Sam’s heard it before, and rough. Like he’s just been drinking a tumbler of whiskey, like his throat’s been scraped up with gravel. “If I wanted you in my bed, I wouldn’t have to buy you anything to get you there.” His hand moving up from Sam’s shirt to his throat, to the place where his pulse is jumping frantic against the thin skin. “I would just lift you up—” pressing Sam back against the wall behind him, their legs still tangled—“and tear off your trousers—” his hand drifting between them for the barest instant, over Sam’s hips, his groin—“and _slide_ into you. Make you take it raw, just because I can. Because Sam—” whispering now, mouth so close to Sam’s ear Sam can feel the soft skin brushing against his own— _“I’m_ the one in charge here. I’m always the one in charge.”

Sam is so hard it hurts. His heart racing so fast he thinks it’s going to explode out of his chest, and he wants to rock his hips up until he comes. Wants to grab Lucifer’s hips and slam their mouths together, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and as desire twists down in his stomach and grips him tight and unforgiving, he realizes for the first time consciously that it’s always been like this for them. This violent angry subcutaneous volatile surge of _want,_ and Sam wonders if Lucifer would like it if he rocked down right now, the crack of his ass riding just on his cock—

But Lucifer is dropping him. Stepping back. His irises glittering in the gas lamps, smoldering with barely banked back intensity. Mouth tense, the restraint obvious in the tight lines around his eyes. The controlled way he holds himself alone is almost enough to have Sam coming untouched. 

Until Lucifer turns from him. Disinterested expression on his face as he looks away, towards the curtain in front of the dining hall. 

“I bought you those clothes so you’d have something to wear, Sam. That’s all.” Bored, even tone. Like the last thirty seconds never happened. He turns, starts to walk away. Only stops when he’s at the door to the kitchen, and over his left shoulder he says: 

“You need to take an extra shift tonight waiting tables. Amelia has five clients and can’t make it down.”

Then he’s gone, and Sam is left gasping. Bending over in the middle of the hall, hand shoved down his pants, and he’s barely touched his cock before he’s coming all over himself, shuddering and spilling almost violently into his hand, against the inseam of his shorts.

He can’t decide if he hates Lucifer more than he wants him, or if it’s the other way around.

He can’t decide which would be worse.


	3. Chapter 3

He keeps expecting Lucifer to fuck him. Keeps anticipating his bedroom door to creak open every night, waiting to feel Lucifer’s tongue in his mouth, hand pressed between his legs. The whole idea of it intrigues him, now that he knows how it feels to get slammed into a wall with sexual intent, and as the days and weeks roll by he stops feeling nervous about Lucifer taking him and starts growing, in some vague way he refuses to look very closely at, a little bit impatient.

Because Lucifer _isn’t_ fucking him. There are heated hard gazes across rooms and slow sardonic curves to his mouth. Mocking amused tilt of his head, and he’ll say things deliberately just to rile Sam up. Bordering on cruel, sometimes, and Sam hates that it gets him hard even when he’s snapping right back. Like Lucifer’s voice is attached to Sam’s dick and he’s controlling him. Teasing him because he can. No intention of following through, and Sam cannot figure it out. Why Lucifer seems almost to get off more from toying with Sam, a cat playing with its dinner before it pounces. It scares him and it makes him furious and. It just makes him _want,_ more and more. Aching in ways he doesn’t have words for, and sometimes. Sometimes he’ll look at Lucifer. Think he sees something of the same emotion reflected back at him, somewhere under all that simmering rage and chilling reticence, but it never breaks out, and Sam begins to think he should just resign himself to this for the rest of his life.

~ 

Sam’s been sixteen for nearly two weeks—Lucifer’s consort for a month and a half. It’s the middle of May, and business is kind of slow, the usual clients gone off for early summer vacations with their actual families. Leaving the brothel full of single young patrons that the prostitutes secretly mock, because they’re all so unsure of what they want, and a lot of restless inactive nights dancing halfheartedly on the stage for no more than twenty-five people.

The usual set-up for evenings is that the clients come in. Get taken off to the pleasure gardens, or up to the suites, or into the parlor. Inias cooks a dinner for everyone and Sam dances with the others, and then he goes up to his room for the rest of the night. Because there’s no point in being downstairs when he’s not going to be flirting or fucking anyone. No point in standing around watching Lucifer overseeing the workings of the brothel, conducting business transactions in his office, when Sam knows he’s not going to get any attention for himself.

One night there’s a thunderstorm, and even though the brothel is well-insulated even fewer people show up than usual. So that by midnight, there’s hardly anyone in for the evening that doesn’t live there, and Sam goes up to bed early. Takes his shower, half-asleep through the whole thing, and heads for his room in vague anticipation of an actual decent night’s sleep.

The fact that Lucifer is in his room puts kind of a damper on the whole situation, though.

He’s sitting on Sam’s bed, a startling and unexpected presence after so many weeks of barely showing up near Sam except when they’re downstairs, and Sam’s fingers clench tighter around his towel. Hair dripping on the carpet as he stands wet and suddenly fully awake in the door, and Lucifer looks up. His mouth curling into something dark and sinful as his eyes drop down Sam’s bare chest, slick with water. 

“Well,” he says, “I can see all the dancing you do isn’t wasted.”

Sam flushes. Pretends he isn’t more than a little flattered at the compliment, no matter how it’s been delivered. “What do you want, Lucifer,” he asks. 

Instead of answering, Lucifer stands up. Moves towards Sam, until they’re standing almost close enough to be touching, and he takes Sam’s wrist and pulls him into the room. Reaches around him with the other hand, pushes the door shut. His eyes flicking between Sam’s mouth and his towel, and he says:

“Relax your hand.”

It’s so quiet. The air suffused with the tension that’s been following them for so long now, crackling hot and alive between them, charged up with the lightning soaking the atmosphere outside. The only sound in the room their breathing, short and sharp, and the consistent thick fall of rain against the warped-glass window. 

Sam hesitates, his free hand still clasping the towel in the front, and Lucifer drops his wrist so he can fold his fingers over Sam’s. His knuckles brushing just against the bare stretch of skin under Sam’s navel, and Sam is hard instantly and painfully against the cloth.

“Let it go,” Lucifer murmurs, rough-edged, and Sam releases the tension running down his hand, lets the towel fall to the floor. 

Lucifer’s got him shoved against the wall almost immediately after, his face visible for short seconds during flashes of light through the window. Expression tight and dark and soaked in lust as he leans in, teeth on Sam’s neck. Biting down and sucking long enough for Sam to feel it jolt into his chest, and then he pulls back. His hand sliding between them and Sam inhales, tensing up, anticipating—

Lucifer’s hand curves around the hot length of his cock and Sam gasps, tense sound hissing out through his teeth as he arches into Lucifer’s hand. His hands slamming back to grasp at the wall behind him as Lucifer strokes him in slow, excruciating slides. Their skin dry and hot pressed together and Sam’s hips are jerking forward without his permission, watching Lucifer—feeling the echo of his teeth still sunk into Sam’s neck, the low burn of pain where Sam’s sure there will be a bruise in the morning—

Their eyes locked on each other, the lightning crackling outside. The rain falling in sheets and the thunder rolling overhead, shaking the walls, Lucifer’s thumb skidding across the head and slicking up his grasp. Sam breathing—but just barely. Teeth digging into his lower lip so he won’t cry out, the feelings overwhelming and sharp, so amplified—so much different than when Sam’s used his own hand before—

Lucifer growls, “Come for me,” and Sam’s hips stutter and jerk and he comes all over Lucifer’s hand and his stomach and it _hurts,_ it’s so good. A desperate wanton ache between his legs and Lucifer strokes him until he’s dry, until his knees aren’t supporting him anymore and he’s whimpering all soft and hurt under his breath, sliding to the floor.

“Oh my god,” Sam breathes, over and over, all he can say. “Oh my god, Lucifer.”

He can still feel the ghost of Lucifer’s skin all scorching on his. Branded into him forever, torturous memory, so much better than the way it’s been going in Sam’s dreams. Exhausted, but his gaze is still locked on Lucifer’s crotch when he asks:

“Can I—”

Lucifer shakes his head once. Mutters something Sam doesn’t quite catch through the thunder, and Sam watches Lucifer through half-lidded eyes as he tugs his own trousers down. Slips his hand in—the hand still slick with Sam’s come—and gets himself off like that, nothing on his face except a slight tightening of the lines around his eyes when he comes. A faint exhalation, and Lucifer stares out the window the entire time. The angles of his body lit up and defined in the storm, the rivulets of water cutting across the glass reflected on his skin. 

When he’s done, he looks down again. His eyes drifting over the casual sprawl of Sam, warm and sated and sleepy, and he goes to the door, tugs it open. 

“Where’re you going,” Sam asks, or thinks he asks, but Lucifer doesn’t answer. Just disappears into the main area of the suite, and Sam doesn’t know what to do with the odd crushing sensation in his chest. His whole body still humming and euphoric off the orgasm but Lucifer’s gone, and Sam doesn’t like that his emotions feel almost tied to the fact. Fluctuating between confusion and hurt and nonchalance at how quickly Lucifer disappeared. Like not even everything that just happened between them was enough to make him stay.

 _I don’t care,_ Sam thinks, watching the rain sluice down the window. Counting long seconds between the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder, feeling his come start to dry cool and tacky on his stomach and his cock. The skin chilled, goosebumps popping out, and Sam’s just started to deliberate whether or not he should force himself up on still-shaking legs for another shower, or if he could get away with crawling into bed like this. All fucked-out and decadent and smelling of salt and sex; take care of cleaning himself off in the morning, when Lucifer returns. Carrying a wet cloth from the bathroom, his trousers zipped back up, and there’s a strange expression in his eyes as he looks at Sam. 

“Thought you left,” Sam says, mouth moving against the plaster of the wall where he has his lips pressed halfway, and Lucifer reaches down, tugs Sam up. Holding him by the wrist as he wipes him with the cloth, on his stomach and his cock—which gives a valiant twitch at the sensation. Sam hums, allows himself to be turned and walked to bed, lain down on the mattress. The covers pulled over his naked body, Lucifer setting the cloth aside so he can push Sam’s sweaty hair off his forehead. The catch and pull of his fingers on Sam’s skin strangely comforting, but Sam doesn’t say it. 

“I’d like if you took dinner with me tomorrow evening,” Lucifer says, after a long time, just as Sam’s started to slide out of consciousness.

“What, food in exchange for putting out?” Sam mumbles into his pillow, but his heart gives an odd lurch at the idea of a meal with Lucifer. _Just_ Lucifer, the two of them sitting across from each other, their feet brushing under the table every time Sam shifts in his seat.

“Sam,” Lucifer warns, soft, but there’s no real heat behind his voice. His hand keeps stroking Sam’s forehead, pulling gently across his scalp, and Sam says:

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s hand pauses in his hair and Sam can tell he wasn’t expecting agreement, but his voice is careful and neutral when he says, “Tomorrow evening, seven p.m. I’ll be taking you out.”

“Fancy,” Sam murmurs, only half awake. His mind drifting and tumbling over images of the two of them in a restaurant somewhere in London. Wondering how Lucifer will act, when he’s away from the brothel. 

It occurs to Sam that he’s never seen Lucifer in public. That he never thought Lucifer would want him to. 

He thinks he feels Lucifer’s thumb skate across his eyebrow before he falls asleep. 

~

They go out the following evening dressed as close to normal as either of them will ever get. Lucifer in a dark frock coat and silk vest over his Egyptian cotton button-down, cravat tucked carefully into the collar, and striped trousers. Deep maroon fabrics, sapphire and emerald rings studded across his fingers. Sam in a dark blue three-piece, complementing Lucifer without overshadowing him. One of the things Lucifer had bought for him back when everything was new, and he finds he can’t pretend he doesn’t notice how well they look together. He and Lucifer balanced and sophisticated when they ride into London in the steam-powered carriage, Sam only trembling where Lucifer can’t see, and he looks down at himself as they descend. As Lucifer hands the driver a twenty-pound note so he’ll wait outside the restaurant, and Sam has a moment where he hardly recognizes himself. 

Four years ago, he was the scrawny violent kid from the orphanage who stole food for the younger kids but broke the arm of someone two years ahead of him for trying to steal Sam’s own. Four years ago, he didn’t even have three farthings weighing his pockets down, and now. Now he’s someone people want to hold doors open for at restaurants in south London. Now he’s someone who looks like he could belong in public with Lucifer, who is. Barely recognizable in this setting. All elegance and refined courtesy, nothing like he is at the brothel. Or, rather—exactly the way he is, but far more restrained. Little tense lines around his eyes and mouth as he smiles, inclines his head. Offers up social niceties Sam didn’t think Lucifer would even be aware of. All that power still simmering just under the surface, but he’s pulled it back. Only the way he walks, the way he’s holding himself, gives any indication as to the person he might be. Nothing else. Not even a hint of how volatile he is, sometimes. How cold and cruel and unforgiving.

“You’re like a totally different person here,” Sam tells him, without thinking, once they’re seated. Immediately winces, thinking how they haven’t even been here ten minutes and already Sam’s fucked up, but Lucifer just snorts, smoothing a hand over the linen tablecloth. 

“Well, we are in public, Sam,” he murmurs. Leaning in a little, so that his face is lit from underneath by the single candle in the center of their table. “I can’t exactly bend you over the side of your chair and spread your legs in front of everyone,” and Sam kind of chokes, glaring at Lucifer, smirking and amused across from him. 

The waiter comes over and takes their drink orders— _tea,_ Sam says, frowning at his menu, and Lucifer makes a rough amused sound, corrects him: _we’ll both have champagne, thank you_ —which prompts Sam to ask:

“Did you invite me out here just to get me drunk?”

The edge of one of Lucifer’s rings catches on the table as he taps it there, looking dangerous and 

_(beautiful)_

sensuous in the dim light. “If I wanted to get you drunk, Sam, I would’ve just had brandy delivered to our suite.”

It’s the first time either of them has referred to it as _their_ suite, and Sam’s glad for the gas lamps flickering across his face as he blushes. “Okay,” he says, “so why are we here, then? I know it’s not just out of the goodness of your heart—”

“I think we both needed an evening off,” Lucifer says. “And I have some things I need to discuss with you.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Do these things have anything to do with the fact that it’s been a month and a half and you still haven’t fucked me?”

Lucifer’s fingers still against the tabletop. “I was going to talk to you about the logistics of our relationship arrangement, yes.”

“Oh, yeah, the logistics that didn’t already get explained on that contract saying you can do whatever the hell you want to me—” But the sarcasm feels wrong coming out of his mouth. The way it did last night, when Lucifer had asked him out to dinner. So that when Lucifer just looks at him, mild annoyance flitting across his eyes, Sam makes himself shut up. Takes in a deep breath, hand clenched around his thigh.

“Will you let me speak?” Lucifer asks, after a little bit. With the flame still flickering between them like the lightning from the night before. Watching Sam like he doesn’t quite know what to make of him, even after all this time, and Sam. Sam doesn’t really know what to do with something like that.

So he nods. 

Lucifer does too, mouth twisted up a little at one corner. He’s quiet for a minute as their waiter returns, holding two crystal stem glasses on a tray, a bottle of champagne set in a tub of ice. Pours the liquid so that it slides perfect and slick down the sides of the flutes, twisting his wrist to avoid dripping alcohol on the tablecloth. Walks off once Lucifer’s indicated they aren’t ready to order their food yet, and Lucifer lifts his glass, tilts it at Sam’s.

“So that our evening might be tolerable,” he says, and the edge of his glass catches Sam’s with a soft sound.

“Pretty sure I’m not gonna be the one who’d be making it intolerable,” Sam mutters at his lap, but he can feel a smile threatening to shove its way onto his face. Takes a sip of champagne to try and quell it, and then “You had something to say?” he asks, without looking up. 

There’s a thread of something close to amusement in Lucifer’s voice when he speaks. “You and I have never really gone over how our contract works, have we.”

Sam shakes his head. “I just assumed it was me giving you sex,” he says. “But you’re not. You haven’t wanted—you aren’t fucking around with me yet.” Tries to keep his voice neutral, but when Lucifer takes his next sip of champagne, the way his eyes glitter in the light glinting off the glass—Sam can tell he knows how much Sam wants him. Probably knows that one handjob in a dark room hasn’t done a whole lot to satiate him. Though it did help, and maybe Sam could convince him they need to go at it again—

“You wouldn’t consider what I did to you last night fucking around?” And that’s definitely amusement, now. Lucifer tilting his head, reaching across the table and tucking his forefinger and thumb against the collar of Sam’s dress shirt. Acting like he’s going to straighten it, but he pulls it back, instead. Just enough to expose the lower side of Sam’s neck, where Lucifer had his teeth last night. Where there’s a small dark spot now, dull russet shade and Sam flushes when Lucifer strokes the pad of his thumb over its surface. Little barely-there tendrils of pain registering, and Sam glares at him, wishes he could control whatever emotion is registering on his face now.

Lucifer pulls back, tucks the collar into its usual position. Hand set carefully on his glass, and he says, “You know, Sam—you intrigue me.”

The non-sequitur kind of throws Sam off balance a little, the way nearly everything Lucifer says throws him, and he blinks. 

“I intrigue you?”

“Yes.” Lucifer nods, taking another sip of champagne. His eyes flicking to Sam’s, then down to the restaurant menu. 

“Is that why you took me to begin with?” Sam asks, and Lucifer breathes out.

“When you were twelve,” he says, “of course, I didn’t know you. But even then—” 

He breaks himself off. Eyes cutting to the wall behind Sam’s head, and for the first time since Sam’s known him, he looks—he’s not entirely—

“Lucifer?” Sam prompts, after a few seconds, and Lucifer shakes his head. 

“Even then,” he says, like he’s steeling himself. Like he has to force the words out. “You reminded me of myself, when I was your age.”

Whatever Sam was expecting Lucifer to say, it wasn’t that. He takes a fast drink of champagne to hide how startled he is, says, “How—”

“Your stubbornness, mostly,” Lucifer says. No trace of that earlier amusement left in his face, and Sam swallows, his heart doing odd things in his chest. “That defiance you carry around like a torch.” He pauses for a moment to give their order to the waiter—sautéed mushrooms and light soup for an appetizer, roast chicken cooked in breadcrumbs and sided with baked potatoes as the main course—and then “The fact that you refused to give in,” he says. “Even when I tried beating your insolence out of you.”

Some subconscious instinct makes Sam’s hand lift, press to the bruise on his neck. Remembering 

_(“I am getting increasingly tired of your childish backtalk,” Lucifer snaps, his hands gripping Sam’s shoulders too hard behind the stage, another show done, another night of too much skin exposed and Sam was just sick of it, lashed out. “You give me one more episode like you did earlier and I’ll—”_

_“You’ll what, Lucifer? You’ll hit me again? You’ll kick me out?” Sam is sneering, mocking. “Yeah, I’d love to see that happen—”_

_The slap, when it comes, isn’t unexpected, but it jars Sam anyway. Feeling his teeth cut into the inside of his cheek, blood exploding in his mouth and he tries not to react but he can’t hide his wince._

_“They’ll eat you alive if you can’t take this much pain,” Lucifer snarls. His hand still raised halfway, Sam’s cheek stinging and hot. “When it’s your time to spread your legs for the clients, they’ll carve you up and spit you out—”_

_“So you’re hitting me because you want to train me into tolerating pain while I get fucked?” Sam snaps back, instinctive reaction, and he barely even flinches when Lucifer strikes him a second time.)_

Lucifer’s attempts at discipline, when he was still so young his voice cracked. When he was still unaware of how Lucifer looked pressed against him in the half-light, the hot weight of his hand wrapped around Sam’s cock.

“Thought you told me you hated when I was rude,” Sam says, but it feels, strangely, almost like an apology. 

Lucifer says, “I disliked that you were uncontrollable,” and he says, “I thought you were going to inspire my other children to stop working. My business can’t run if no one’s making money.”

Sam’s chest tightens with half-hearted anger. Lucifer’s focus on wealth, on prioritizing the prostitutes as second to the cash they can rake in, has always incensed him, but. “No,” he says, very quiet. “They wouldn’t have, they hated me. They still hate me.”

One of Lucifer’s fingers runs a slow line up the side of his glass. “They don’t hate you, Sam.”

“They’ve always been able to see you making me into your favorite and they certainly don’t like that.”

“Would you like me to stop?” His head tilted to the side, watching Sam with a curious, almost cautious expression on his face. Like there’s something vital hanging onto Sam’s answer, whether it’s yes or no, and Sam can’t tell what the right thing to say is. Isn’t even sure of what he’s feeling, himself, but he’s spent years in Lucifer’s unofficial care. Years of not having to bend over or go on his knees or have his wrists pinned to rickety headboards. Years of getting to stay in his room during auctions, years of having books to read and ciphers to write on, nothing to do in his leisure time but stroll through the house, the grounds. 

“No,” Sam says, and Lucifer nods, fleeting satisfied expression crossing his face before he suffocates it.

Then “So that’s it, then,” Sam asks, and Lucifer lifts his eyebrows. “That’s the whole reason you’ve kept me all these years, even though I wasn’t fucking anyone. Because I remind you of yourself.”

Lucifer flinches. Just barely, just along the line of his shoulders. So that if Sam wasn’t watching him as close as he is, he wouldn’t have noticed at all. “Because you caught my attention,” he says. “Curious stubborn little thing that you are—”

“‘m almost six feet, not little,” Sam mumbles, and is rewarded a moment later by a genuine, surprised laugh from Lucifer. His eyes crinkling at their edges, lines forming underneath, and Sam is startled at how—human Lucifer looks, when he’s like this. How normal. Like someone who could be—

“So I caught your attention,” Sam says fast, to derail that particular train of thought. “I remind you of yourself.” He tilts his glass back to his lips, finds he has to angle it for longer before the champagne will slide down his throat. “Is that why you buy me clothes?”

“Everyone needs to be wearing something when they aren’t in the back rooms,” Lucifer says, his tone suggesting he’s being deliberately obtuse.

“I mean clothes that look like this, Lucifer.” Sam points at his three-piece. Far more expensive and fine than anything the others own, except maybe Lilith and Abaddon. “Stuff it takes everyone else years to earn. You never make me _earn_ anything. You just—give.”

There’s a small frown etched between Lucifer’s eyebrows. “I asked if you’d like me to stop—”

“I’m not saying I want you to. I just. I’m trying to make sense of it. It’s not like I’m anyone important. I’ve spent four years with everyone hating me and you never. You don’t exactly act like you’re just dying to be friends with me, so—it’s not. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, is all. Why you do all this stuff for me, when I haven’t done anything for it back.”

Sizzling plates of sautéed mushrooms interrupt their conversation. Small china bowls of light soup, sterling silver spoons and the scent of onions and garlic drenching the air around their table, and the waiter refills their glasses without asking. Sets a basket of bread in the center of their table, presumably for dipping, and walks off. 

Sam lifts his fork, cheeks flushed. Ready to just eat, to forget everything he just said, but Lucifer’s fingers are closing around his wrist, rendering him immobile. “Sam,” Lucifer says. Just his name, but it’s a command. Sam recognizes that when he hears it.

“I don’t exactly think I’m worth any of the stuff you give me,” Sam says, more to his mushrooms than to Lucifer’s insistent gaze. “Like. Um. The books. That tome on ancient Egyptian mythology you gave me that one year, remember—with all the drawings and the descriptions?”

“I remember.”

“Or like when there was that meteor shower, and you left your desk for the whole evening just to come watch it with me—told me all about what we were seeing, all the different constellations, like you were just as interested as I was—”

Lucifer’s thumb is right against the thin skin on the underside of his wrist, and Sam can feel every movement of Lucifer’s own body. Including the moment when he twitches, surprised. Jerking like he wants to pull away but can’t make himself. “I didn’t leave my desk unmanned,” Lucifer says, voice a little bit dimmed. “Lilith was in charge, that night.”

Sam takes a breath. “I’m the only one in the whole place that gets lotion after I get hurt. I’m the only one you’ve never allowed anyone to knock around except you—”

“Well.” Lucifer’s voice is tight. Impatient and strained and Sam knows he’s imagining the bemused sheen in his eyes. “There’s one thing we can remedy for you, then.” He drops Sam’s wrist like it’s scalding him, and Sam flinches back on instinct. Knows he’s said the wrong thing again, wonders if it’ll cost him everything they’ve started to tentatively build up this evening. 

Lucifer makes a quiet sound, his fingers flexing in mid-air, where he had been holding Sam’s hand just moments before. “Sam,” he says, watching. The way he always has, as far back as Sam can remember. That introspective contemplating look Sam’s never seen until tonight set hard in his eyes, and Sam feels his shoulders starting to relax, but only just. 

He’s learned it’s best to stay wary, around Lucifer. 

“What, you’re gonna start beating the shit out of me and not give me the additional protection of something cold and aloe-scented afterwards?” Sam asks, clenching his free hand hard around the edge of his seat in the hopes that it will stop his trembling. 

“I’m not going to beat you,” Lucifer says. 

“I. You. What?” Startled, Sam watches Lucifer lower his hand to his silverware. Lift the spoon and dip it into his soup, just casual, but he won’t look directly at Sam when he repeats himself:

“I won’t hit you anymore,” he says, and Sam doesn’t know why but his hand goes automatically to his neck. Feeling for that bruise, and the pain it sends sparking all down his ribs. Third time tonight it’s been touched with real intent, and Lucifer’s eyes travel there too. Setting his spoon down and allowing his mouth to curve up for an instant at the corners. Eyes sparking dark and glittering but Sam doesn’t feel threatened. Or endangered. Or any of the usual emotions he feels when he’s with Lucifer.

He thinks that should scare him more than anything.

“Dare I hope you’ve developed some kind of moral code after all this time?” Sam asks, and Lucifer snorts. 

“I’m just trying to play fair for once,” he says, and Sam tears a hunk of bread off fast with his teeth so he won’t laugh. 

“Yeah?” he says. “What, uh. What else were you planning, if you’re so intent on playing fair?”

Lucifer sucks his lower lip in, and Sam tries not to stare. Finds it pretty impossible a second later when Lucifer starts in on his mushrooms, his skin coming away all shiny. “I’d like you exclusively,” Lucifer tells him. “No one else in our beds but each other—”

“So we _are_ working into actual sex.” Sam grins at him, and Lucifer nudges his ankle under the table. Just light, just the smallest movement, but it makes Sam blush harder than he has all evening. 

“Don’t make me regret my decisions, Sam,” Lucifer growls, but it’s as empty a threat as Sam has ever heard. Lucifer’s foot still resting just barely against his ankle, like he forgot it there. His hand curled halfway across the table, almost touching Sam’s champagne glass. 

“Oh, well, hell—you’re the one who signed a contract with the rudest kid in the brothel—”

They’re both smiling, now. All warm and strangely pleasant in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “I want everything to be consensual,” Lucifer says. “Nothing you don’t want, Sam.”

“If I remind you so much of yourself, shouldn’t you be able to interpret what I want already?” Sam asks, and pushes his ankle back against Lucifer’s foot. Lucifer startles a little, glancing down. Trying a second later to school his expression into something more refined, but Sam already saw, and he files it away for later. When he’s alone, and he can dissect all these little tiny hints at vulnerability, at _human,_ that Lucifer has been giving him since they sat down.

“And there’s one more thing, Sam—”

“Oh, good, I was starting to think we hadn’t covered all the aspects of our contract—”

“You belong _exclusively_ to me. That needs to be understood.”

Sam blinks. “You said that one already, Lucifer—”

“It goes for all situations, Sam. Not just who we spread our legs for.” Lucifer takes a bite of soup-soaked bread, and Sam’s fingers are suddenly itching with the desire to wipe the trail of broth off his lower lip. Just to see how his skin would feel there, just on his mouth, that soft little red vulnerable place Sam has never touched. “You don’t have to go naked by request anymore. Not even during the dances. Not even in the parlor.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Lingerie?”

“Not unless you want to,” Lucifer repeats, his eyes steady on Sam’s, and there’s a low flare of heat building up in Sam’s stomach now. Has been for a while, sparked off by that new tone in Lucifer’s voice, maybe. Or the quiet look in his eyes, not quite predatory but just on the border. 

Sam pushes his plate to the side, leans in a little. So that his leg brushes higher up against Lucifer’s under the table, their calves touching. Sam’s elbows resting on the table but Lucifer doesn’t chastise him about good manners, too busy staring at Sam’s mouth. 

“What if I want to display myself in public like that for you?” Sam asks, his voice dropping lower than he thought it could, and he watches Lucifer’s irises darken until they’re nearly black. Feels Lucifer’s leg tremble against his, just for a second, but he knows right then that Lucifer is hard. That Sam’s the one who got him there, two nights in a row. 

Their waiter comes with the main course five minutes later, finds them still staring at each other. Sam shaking a little, feeling the solid warm press of Lucifer’s hand on the inside of his knee. Lucifer biting his lower lip, his throat working, but his voice is even and steady when he says:

“What do you think, Sam? Of my proposed arrangement?” 

The waiter clears their appetizers aside, sets their fresh food down. Sam’s heart is in his throat, his fingers trembling as he reaches for his champagne glass. 

“It sounds,” Sam starts. Has to clear his throat, hold up his glass for more. He wonders how much he can drink before he loses control of his own body. Before he stops having enough common sense to know it would be a bad idea to launch himself across the table right now and grab the lapels of Lucifer’s jacket, kiss him all hot and wet and messy right here, in front of everyone. 

“I like it,” Sam says, a few sips later, and Lucifer nods.

“So do I,” he murmurs. His hand still twitching idly on Sam’s knee, but it isn’t until the waiter walks off that he starts edging his fingers up. Gaze intent on Sam’s, and Sam tries to ignore the slow crawl of Lucifer’s hand but it’s pretty hard when he’s shifting his seat closer. Sliding his foot more firm between Sam’s just to gain better purchase under the table, the rough pads of his fingers scraping against Sam’s inner thigh. Watching him and moving slow, so slow, his palm spread flat, his breathing all low and intimate near Sam’s ear as he presses further and further up—Sam’s heartbeat ratcheting crazy fast in his chest, his mouth gone dry but all his higher brain functions are dead. He couldn’t reach for the champagne right now, much less remember he has a glass of it right in front of him—

And then Lucifer pulls back. His eyes hooded, innocuous—though Sam catches a flash of that dark, unbridled lust just before Lucifer looks down at his plate. Lifts his knife and fork, cuts his chicken into neat, practical cubes. Like he wasn’t just teasing Sam out of his goddamn mind. Like his hand wasn’t just creeping up Sam’s thigh, just centimeters away from his—

“Aren’t you going to eat, Sam?” Lucifer asks, and Sam jerks at the sound of his voice. “Your food’s going to get cold.”

He’s looking at him from across the table. Just looking, nothing sexual or suggestive in his gaze, but even so Sam feels pinned under his eyes. So intense, twin pools of the richest blue Sam’s ever seen. Glaciers floating in the bottom of the ocean, and the man they belong to is twice as dangerous, but he’s smiling, right now. _Smiling,_ barely perceptible, with his head tilted to the right, his jaw moving slow as he chews.

Sam swallows. Makes an embarrassingly incoherent noise that prompts Lucifer to laugh, low and scuffed up from the back of his throat, and he can’t speak for the rest of the evening. Still too intent on thinking of what could have been, on that soft warm almost fond expression in Lucifer’s eyes, and it’s quiet at their table, but Sam thinks it’s okay.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a shift in their relationship, after that.

They still don’t fuck, but. It’s different, somehow. Sam figures a lot of it has to do with the fact that they don’t fight anymore. Not really. Not since Lucifer laid down the terms of the contract, claimed he wasn’t going to hit Sam anymore. Which he doesn’t, a fact that has surprised Sam about as much as it hasn’t. 

Well, that and the fact that now there are handjobs and blowjobs every other night to satiate the tension, but. Sam isn’t looking to be too particular. 

Or, well, maybe he is. Because their new set-up is pretty great. Starts about three days after the dinner, when Sam’s dragging himself to bed after a five-hour shift on the stage. His muscles sore from dancing, and he’s been half-hard for hours, just from watching Lucifer watch him from the audience. Their eyes locked nearly the entire time Sam was dancing, Lucifer with his fingers pressed to his mouth, legs spread careless under the tablecloth. So much heat thrumming between them that even when the other patrons applauded and catcalled, Sam couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t see them. Blind and deaf to everything but Lucifer, smirking all slow and lascivious from under his hand. His expression somehow managing to be both amused and promising sex, all at once.

So Sam’s aching, turned-on, and exhausted. His mind on the shower, where he can jerk off all slow and wanting. Thinking of Lucifer, who has barely spoken to him since their trip to London, always busy with work; tonight was the first night he was even able to come watch Sam in the dining hall. Sam’s mind always on him, wondering if Lucifer thinks about him too. Replaying over and over the feeling of Lucifer’s hand sliding up his thigh. Wondering what might have happened if Lucifer hadn’t dragged his fingers away. 

In their suite, Sam’s just kicked the door shut with the sole of his foot. Is in the middle of tugging his corset open, not looking up, when he hears footsteps. Heavy and purposeful, and he barely has time to brace himself before Lucifer is pressing him back against the wall. Hands gripping his shoulders, that same hot starved look in his eyes from earlier, and Sam’s exhaustion washes away in an instant. His lust welling up, threatening to consume him, and he makes a little choked-off sound, a hoarse gasp that has Lucifer’s grip tightening around his arms.

“Don’t slam the door,” Lucifer growls in his ear. Fingers moving down, down, to his waist, slipping his garters off, tucking into the lace sides of his panties. “Do you have any idea how much it cost me?”

Sam’s already rutting up into his hand, and he hasn’t even taken his underwear off. “Quit bitching and just fuckin’ _do_ something already, if you’re gonna—”

Lucifer drags the silk down off Sam’s legs in one swift movement. The fabric ripping a little with the force of Lucifer’s hand, and Sam groans, “Oh, _no,_ you sure you have enough money to pay for more of those—ah, _shit,_ Lucifer,” because suddenly Lucifer’s hand is on his cock again, squeezing, moving up and down too fast too quick too much—

“Lucifer—Lucifer— _Christ,_ I—” Sam’s hands are scrabbling frantically for purchase. Find themselves gripping Lucifer’s waist, digging into his hips. “Oh, _god,”_ he groans, staring at the erratic pulse jumping in Lucifer’s neck, hips jerking forward of their own volition. 

“Do you have any idea what you looked like tonight,” Lucifer asks. His voice pitched low as he moves his hand. Idly grinding his own hips against Sam’s thigh, and Sam knows he isn’t going to last long at all, not like this. “Up on the stage, dressed like that—after I haven’t even seen you for three days, Sam—”

Sam’s breath is hitching. His back hurts where it’s pressed too hard into the wall and his legs are shaking from having to support him like this and his cock is over sensitized, too many hours brushing against the soft teasing material of his outfit on stage now at harsh counterpoint to the rough dry catch and pull of Lucifer’s palm. He’s sweating and he’s sore and he’s tired and he’s hot and cold all over, all at once, and he’s never wanted anyone like this. Never.

“Surprise,” Sam says, with what little control over his mouth he has left, and then, “Oh, _fuck,”_ and he’s coming, shuddering, all over everything. Lucifer stroking him through it, eyes steady on Sam’s, kinda leaning against the wall a little. Still rocking his hips up, lazy, and when Sam starts pushing at him, the sensations getting to be too much, Lucifer reaches inside his pants, pushing them down, hand fisting around his own cock. 

Sam watches the flex and pull of his arm muscles for a moment, dazed and satiated and shaking, but then. Then he finds his hands moving of their own accord, batting Lucifer’s away and wrapping inexperienced and uncertain around him. 

He feels different in Sam’s hand than Sam was expecting. Having never jerked anyone off but himself, Sam wasn’t sure before how to really imagine it but it’s nothing like what he thought it would be. Lucifer is hot, a startling counter to the relative cool temperature of his hands and arms and face. Nearly burning in Sam’s palm, and heavy. Thicker than Sam, flushed, and Sam gives an experimental pull and is rewarded by the shocked gasp that shoves its way out of Lucifer’s mouth. The way he pushes up into Sam’s grip, and Sam arranges his fingers the way he likes around himself and starts stroking. Slow, teasing pulls that bring up new leaks of precome to the slit every time, and Sam swipes his thumb through it, uses it to slick up his grip. 

“Sam,” Lucifer says, his voice rough. Wrecked. He’s not smirking anymore. “Go faster—I’m not gonna break if you—”

Sam twists his wrist, sharp, and Lucifer hisses through his teeth. 

“Always giving orders,” Sam says, shaking his head, but he moves faster anyway. Speeding up and gripping tighter, sliding his free hand down Lucifer’s side. Focused and intent on the movement of his hand. Still clumsy, not anything like what Lucifer was giving him, but he can tell Lucifer doesn’t mind. Coaxing little hoarse sounds up from Lucifer’s throat, quiet pained noises that are almost enough to get Sam going again, and when Lucifer comes he buries the sound he makes in Sam’s shoulder. Teeth sinking into bare skin and his whole body shudders as he spills over Sam’s hand.

It’s quiet for a while, after. The only sounds in the room are Lucifer and Sam’s breathing, and Sam thinks he can hear his heart pounding in his chest. Can definitely feel Lucifer’s, where it’s moving arrhythmic to his own, sort of throbbing against Sam’s skin. 

Then Lucifer pulls back, clears his throat. “Well,” he says, and Sam can tell he’s trying very hard to hold himself together. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and, “Good enough to make up for how I almost broke your door?” and he’s teasing, of course, but he’s surprised at how much he wants Lucifer’s answer. To know if he was good enough. With his slender fingers, his shaking wrists. 

Lucifer’s hand curves around Sam’s bare hip. Pulls him flush, and Sam would think they were going to kiss, but that’s not who they are. That’s not who Lucifer is. 

“It’ll do,” Lucifer says, trying for indifference and failing miserably, but Sam catches the tail-end of his smile as he’s turning away, so he lets him have it. 

And there are blowjobs, too, though Sam’s more daunted by the idea of Lucifer’s dick in his mouth. Lets Lucifer lead them into it, one afternoon when business is slow. Goes to his office when he’s called down, and ten minutes later he’s stretched out against the desk, trousers around his ankles, Lucifer’s hands on his thighs and the tight wet heat of his mouth stretched around Sam. Sucking him down, far enough that Sam’s hitting the back of Lucifer’s throat, and when he comes he almost breaks Lucifer’s nose, but. God. 

“Gonna hold your hips down next time,” Lucifer tells him, “make you take it without being able to move,” and Sam nods, frantic from where he’s laid out like a sacrificial offering. All disheveled and flushed on the desk, papers scattered to the side, the crack of his ass hanging off the edge. Sure he looks ridiculous but Lucifer’s gaze on him is as hard and heated as ever. Like this is just as new to him as it is to Sam. Like he’s getting just as much out of this.

The first time Sam tries to suck Lucifer off, it’s kind of disastrous. He takes too much too quick and starts gagging, has to pull off fast to avoid embarrassment. Ends up sprawled across Lucifer’s stomach, eyes watering, ashamed and tracing patterns over Lucifer’s hip to try and distract him from the fact that neither of them got off. Lucifer’s fingers stay curled in Sam’s hair and they don’t talk for the rest of the afternoon, not until Lucifer has to get up and Sam has to get ready for the evening, but. There’s no tension. Nothing palpable, anyway. _You’ll work on it,_ Lucifer says, _I’ll teach you,_ and Sam wants to get insulted. Wants to make a big deal about how Lucifer’s being condescending, but that’s not the case, and anyway he’s more turned on by the idea than anything. 

It’s getting harder and harder, as time goes on, to find excuses to continue to hate Lucifer.

“Fuck,” Sam says, one evening. His voice still rough from where he had Lucifer’s dick in his mouth, his legs shaking from his own orgasm. Sprawled out on the carpet of Lucifer’s office, staring at the ceiling, Lucifer a warm solid presence beside him. “If I had known it was this good I would’ve asked you to put me on the floor years ago.”

Lucifer rolls over. Props himself up on one elbow, staring down at Sam. “It would’ve never been that good,” he says, “not unless you were with me,” and Sam feels a thrill run tripping up the vertebrae of his spine at the look in Lucifer’s eyes. 

And so it goes.

There are other things, too. Things that weren’t in the contract, or discussed at the dinner. Lucifer surprising Sam, the way he has for years now. He seems to be calming down, as the weeks go by. His focus not just on sex, on making both of them feel good through physical contact, but on other aspects of their relationship as well. Things that Sam would have never in a million years expected Lucifer to be aware of, but. 

They have a little fight one afternoon. Sam’s not even sure what it’s about, just that Lucifer is frustrating the hell out of him. _You don’t have the full capacity yet to understand that,_ he’ll say, about certain emotions Sam’s sure he’s understood for years now. _You’re only sixteen,_ but then he’ll turn around and suck Sam off against the wall of his study, and Sam’s honestly pretty sick of it.

“You can’t treat me like a child in one case and act like you wanna fuck me in another, Lucifer,” he snaps. His hair still in disarray from where Lucifer was tugging on it earlier, the front of his trousers wet where he came untouched, just from the sound Lucifer made when Sam had his dick down his throat. “You can’t stand there and act like you think I’m not mature enough to listen to certain conversations but then sit down at dinner and read me a fucking contract about how you’re going to fucking _own_ me—” 

It dissolves from there. Until both of them are hoarse from yelling, and Sam’s sure the entire brothel can hear their fight. He ends up storming out of their suite, his legs shaking, smell of sex lingering around him like a cloud. Stays hot and tense for most of the evening, well into the dance—after he’s changed, and cleaned off, and ensured that no one will touch him except Lucifer, because even now that’s all Sam wants—and goes to bed alone and horny and upset. 

“Take a walk with me, Sam,” Lucifer says, the following afternoon. The sun slanting through the windows of their suite, dust motes floating in a burnt gold shaft. The first time he’s spoken to Sam since Sam slammed the door in his face, and Sam opens his mouth to apologize but Lucifer shakes his head, tilting it in increments towards the door. Looking—strangely—almost apologetic himself. 

Lucifer’s face and hair are caught in a scrim of light and Sam’s heart twists and clenches up in his chest at the sight. At the thought that comes, sudden and unbidden, of Sam pressing himself up against Lucifer. Of taking his jaw in his hands and kissing him, all slow and deep, and Sam doesn’t have much—or any—practice with kissing, but he knows enough. Knows Lucifer would walk him through it, like he has done for everything else, and. It might even—they might—

“Sure,” Sam says, dislodging the idea fast, and they take up their coats and shoes and go outside. This hour of the day, there’s hardly anyone in the gardens except for the groundskeepers, Joshua and Cain, and Lucifer and Sam walk a ways out on a dirt path. Under arched trees and along vine-covered trellises, their feet scuffling in the ground, until they get to a secluded place in the center. A rose bed surrounded by brick inlaid ground, cement benches on three sides. The quiet sound of the fountain working a few rows off, and Lucifer walks to the bed, kneels, and clips a flower from the bush. Scrapes the thorns off with the clippers and returns to Sam with it held between his thumb and forefinger. His hand coming to rest on Sam’s shoulder as he leans in, his fingers brushing just against Sam’s temple. Tucking Sam’s hair behind his ear, hand running slow and rough against Sam’s scalp. Sliding the rose back behind his ear, and Sam feels its petals brush cool and soft on his skin. The sweet smell filling his nostrils, and he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that never again will he be able to smell this scent without thinking of this afternoon. With the sun all warm on his neck and Lucifer’s thumb on his cheek, his fingers balancing a rose against Sam’s scalp.

There’s a soft look in Lucifer’s eyes when Sam dares to glance up. One he tries to shutter off almost immediately, but Sam sees it. Catalogues it for later, and reaches up for a second to press the tips of his own fingers against the backs of Lucifer’s knuckles. 

Then, looking out over the rose garden:

“You keep these for yourself?”

Lucifer nods. “I’m allowed to have a hobby outside of the business, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, I know.” Sam touches the rose balanced so careful and tender right on the crest of his ear. “Just didn’t expect you to be a gardener, s’ all.” He grins at Lucifer over his shoulder, says, “Makes you seem like such an old man,” and five minutes later finds himself pinned to the ground. Lucifer working his hands over Sam’s clothes, taking off as little as possible to get his mouth around Sam right there in the dirt—huffing out _show you who’s an old man,_ his mouth quirked. Sam staring up at the sheer blue sky, the wisps of cloud drifting between the branches of trees above his head, his fingers digging into the warm soil as he arches his hips up. Thrusting shallow into Lucifer’s mouth, clenching his teeth so he won’t moan too loud. 

Later, dried off and walking again on unsteady legs, Sam feels warmth spread through him that has nothing whatsoever to do with the remembered sensation of Lucifer’s cheeks hollowed out around his cock. Glances over at him, dazzling and stunning in the light as it slips further down to the horizon, and it occurs to Sam that the garden. The garden was special, to Lucifer. Even if he’d never admit it, it’s obvious to Sam how much he cares about it, and Sam. Sam feels privileged, knowing he’s been taken there. The rose tucked neatly into his jacket, covered in little flecks of dirt from earlier when it fell off Sam’s ear, and long after that day it stays in a glass jar on Sam’s windowsill. Catching sun and air every day until it wilts and dies, Sam watching the petals as they fade from crimson to brown-edged pink, and then to pale curling gold, and then drifting to his floor. Scattered like a wreath around his bed, and he almost can’t bring himself to pick them up.

But it’s not just the rose garden. It’s everything, or nearly. Lucifer gives Sam a massive tome on astronomy, full of marked illustrations and long paragraphs explaining the planets, the stars. One whole chapter devoted to comets, and Lucifer runs his hands over the pages and tells Sam what he knows from observation, and Sam’s never seen him so driven by something. So enthused, night after night, when he slips into Sam’s room not long after Sam comes up from dancing. Opens his curtains, the raw spill of moonlight cascading onto the floor, and points at various dots in the sky. Tracing constellations with his fingers, mapping out dragons and bears and mythical sea creatures. Catching Sam hard in his devotion to astronomy, and once Sam finds himself pressing his head on Lucifer’s shoulder so he can see better through the window. His cheek tucked against the soft cotton, inhaling Lucifer’s scent, familiar and warm. Atmospheric, in some way Sam can’t explain. Charged up with particles, and about as dangerous as it is beautiful.

There are discussions, not just about space and flowers but deeper things. Lucifer’s collection of books in his library—Coleridge and Shelley and Byron; Shakespeare, Whitman, and Poe. Sam curling up with one or more copies at a time and Lucifer joining him, looking over his shoulder. _What do you think of that line?_ he’ll ask, head tilted like he genuinely wants to know, and Sam can’t figure it out. Why Lucifer wants to spend so much time with him. Like Sam _means_ anything to him, outside of what the contract obligates; aside from Bartholomew, Sam has never seen a client treat a consort this way. 

“I’ll stop,” Lucifer says, eyebrows raised, when Sam mentions it, but Sam’s already shaking his head, telling him no. Lucifer smirking at him, his hand snaking lower down Sam’s stomach, saying he knew that’s what the answer would be

_(“you little slut, just can’t stay away from my cock, can you” but coming from Lucifer it isn’t an insult)_

but there’s something close to relief in his eyes, too. As if Lucifer really _does_ want to be here, with Sam, talking about books and spiritualism and stars. His fingers tucked against Sam’s jaw, distracting him while he’s explaining the physics of Jupiter, and Sam wishes he could just figure out what in the hell Lucifer is up to, with all this. 

Because it isn’t as if they don’t still fight. Sam can’t quite forget that Lucifer holds a contract with his name on it. That Sam is, essentially, Lucifer’s property. That any time, Lucifer could get bored with him. Or he could find someone more attractive, more willing to fuck without all of the additional snark, and then Sam would just be another 

_(useless)_

typical whore, discarded in favor of prettier things. Someone more cooperative than Sam, someone who would flirt and tease and fuck and—

“You flirt,” Lucifer says, when Sam brings it up. Confused, like the whole point has just flown right over his head. Fingers threaded through his hair, the muscles in his arms taut against his shirt. “You suck me off.”

Sam just frowns down at his feet, and Lucifer lets out an exasperated sigh. “You cannot believe I would just give you away, Sam. Not after everything—”

“Well, I’m sorry for assuming you’d wanna sleep with someone who actually knew what the fuck they were doing,” Sam interrupts. Snapping without meaning to, his cheeks flushed. Thinking of how he’s still a virgin. Of how he doesn’t really know the dynamics of sex outside of a rudimentary knowledge gained from years of living at the brothel, walking in on people at the wrong time. 

“You’ll _learn,_ Sam—”

“Would you quit talking to me like I’m at school and this is just some lesson on _geometry_ —”

They end up not speaking for the rest of the afternoon, but later that night, when Sam’s dance is over, he heads backstage and finds Lucifer there. Holding another rose, and a red silk scarf that matches its petals. 

“You think I’m the type of guy who can just get won over by new clothes and flowers?” Sam asks, but he’s already taking the rose, tucking it behind his ear. Curving the scarf around his neck, letting it hang long down his sternum so that it drapes between his legs, and when he smirks up at Lucifer, all cocky and self-assured, Lucifer grabs him. Pins him to the wall, tightening the scarf just slightly against his neck, and they almost don’t make it up to their suite. 

So there’s fighting. But as the weeks go on. As the month-long anniversary of their dinner approaches—not that Sam’s been keeping track, but—it starts to decrease. To become less and less of a thing, because Lucifer’s too busy watching Sam with that amused half-smile on his face. Or they’re walking through the garden together, Sam always with a flower tucked behind his ear, Lucifer’s fingers threaded in his hair, or his hand laid flat on the small of Sam’s back. Or they’re staying up in the common area of their suite until five in the morning, Sam rambling on about how much he can’t stand certain clients, Lucifer laughing at certain things he says—although once, Sam thinks he might accidentally get a client kicked out of the brothel:

“She _touches,”_ he says, and Lucifer’s face goes dark, that possessive hard look crossing his eyes:

“She touches you?”

“No, I told her I’m bought, but—other kids, she likes to touch other kids—”

Lucifer relaxes once Sam’s confirmed it’s not his skin she’s marring with her jeweled fingers. But his mouth stays tense, his fingers curved just this side of too tight against the carpet, and Sam finds himself thinking back to before. When he still didn’t belong to anyone in particular, and he’d wander the dining hall in his tight waiters’ outfit. When people like Azazel, or Eve, would attempt to stroke his hair, tug his underwear down, and Lucifer would just appear. Steer Sam away, his eyes hard, but he’d ignore when it happened to the other kids. The one exception being when he’d taken Sam’s clothes off piece by piece, showing Azazel who it was that held the power, but. Even then, Lucifer had noticed Sam. Enough to want him—to want to have him all for himself? 

Logistically, it shouldn’t make sense. Sam knows there are far more attractive people here than him, and far more talented, but the idea of Lucifer noticing him all these years—of _wanting_ him—

So the fighting decreases. Day by day, until they hardly do it at all. Lucifer seems content to just wander around with Sam. To listen to him talk, and to hold conversations, and Sam. Sam is far happier with the whole set-up than he ever thought would be possible. 

He still sees Azazel from time to time, especially when he’s dancing, and though Sam’s not worried anything will happen—especially not in front of Lucifer—he can’t help the uneasiness that crawls in his stomach every time Azazel is there. Glaring from him to Lucifer and back, those heated dark-rimmed eyes full of so much malice and lust and anger. Sam can’t figure out why he doesn’t just buy another kid to fuck his frustrations onto—his reputation certainly implies he’s the type—but. There’s nothing Sam can do about Azazel’s presence. 

“He pays, Sam,” Lucifer says, when they’ve gone out for another dinner in London proper. Sharing goose and caviar and merlot, Lucifer’s hand wandering just far enough up Sam’s thigh to make him frustrated as all hell. “He fucks and he pays and he doesn’t touch you, and I have no grounds to keep him out. I’m sorry.”

Sam swirls his wine around in its glass for a moment, then shrugs. Stares up at Lucifer, at the clean angular cut of his jaw. Well-defined even at his age, and he says:

“Doesn’t really matter, Luce, you know you keep me holed up all to yourself most days anyway.” Blushes a few seconds later, realizing what he said, the word he let slip after so many weeks of keeping it tucked careful under his tongue, but Lucifer’s already smiling.

“‘Luce’?” he repeats, voice pitched soft enough to show he isn’t mocking, and Sam nudges his foot under the table.

“Sight better than ‘Luci’, I think,” he mumbles, chest aching with want and some other, indefinable emotion, and Lucifer’s still got his mouth curved up at the corners, all tender and unfamiliar, when the check comes five minutes later. 

~

There’s a place on Lucifer’s grounds Sam loves more than any other. Quiet and secluded and pushed back from the brothel, far enough to where, if you scrunch down behind the trees a certain way, you can’t see the building at all. When he was younger, coming out here was a way for him to escape. To forget where he lived, what he was intended for. As he’s grown, it’s become less of an escape and more of something peaceful. Slow and _normal,_ in a way most other things in his life aren’t, and Sam doesn’t think there will ever come a time when he won’t love it here.

It’s an orchard, set back behind the gardens and the courtyard and the back fence. Full of various trees—peach, apple, and oak, among others. The ground laden with fallen fruit and leaves, the grass cool and a little sharp under Sam’s hand. He doesn’t go out there very often anymore, now that he has Lucifer occupying most of his time, but one time there’s a slow day at the brothel. The air pleasantly warm and it’s making the clients lazy, reluctant to arrive. So that at seven-thirty, with a barely-occupied dining hall and tired bored groups of kids, Lucifer gives up. Hands the management over to Lilith for the evening and he and Sam go outside together, into the slow orange glow of the setting sun.

Lucifer starts to head automatically for the rose garden, as they’ve been doing for the past few weeks, but Sam stops him. Not really thinking as he lays his hand on Lucifer’s arm, his heart in his throat for no apparent reason. 

Lapis irises meet his—and Sam’s grown another half inch, so they’re at the same height now, eyes on the same level—and Lucifer lifts one eyebrow. Curious and patient, and Sam says:

“I want. Um. I want to show you something. Like you showed me the garden? I want to share this with you too.”

A smile, there and gone in an instant, and Lucifer nods, pressing his fingers against Sam’s, all old-world grace and manners. “I would like to see it, Sam,” he says, and they walk together. Through the pleasure gardens, with their high stone walls and marble fountains. By the greenhouse, covered in ivy and full of exotic tropical flowers Lucifer’s had imported from places like South America and Malaysia. Run solely on heat lamps set into the walls and gas-powered transpiration machines underground. Past the courtyard, full of iron benches and stone pathways, and then. Through the back gate, and there’s the orchard. Empty as usual and covered in a low haze as the sun sinks down to the horizon. Dust motes carried in shafts of light that shine between the trees as if God himself were appointing this consecrated ground—amusing thought. The only sound is that of insects buzzing between the branches, and they stand for a moment on the threshold, watching.

Lucifer says, “I didn’t know you had found this.” But he sounds pleased.

“You have a lot of land,” Sam says, kind of bracing his shoulder against Lucifer’s for a moment. “And I’ve lived here for years.”

It’s quiet for a while, after. For enough time that Sam begins to think he’s said the wrong thing, but then “Show me,” Lucifer says, and Sam can’t quite stop his exhale. “Show me what this place means to you.”

They walk for a while under the trees. Weaving a path between the arbors, among the fallen leaves and swollen fruit. There’s a sweet ripe smell growing in the air, a few gold-winged butterflies dancing past their ears. 

They don’t talk. They barely even make any noise treading on the ground. The air is still enough for Sam to taste the fading sunlight, settling and cooling all around them, and Sam shivers in a breeze coming up from the west. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt happier than this.

They get to a peach tree, covered in heavy fruit, ready to fall. The ripe rich smell as strong as it’s ever been, and Sam reaches up, takes one down. Rubs his thumb over the fuzzy soft skin, feeling its weight in his hand, the firm tenderness of its body.

“Have you eaten one before?” Lucifer asks, from just over Sam’s left shoulder. His voice low, rough. Almost hesitant. “Straight from the tree?”

Sam shakes his head. “Usually when I come out there they’re all already on the ground.” He lifts it to his nose, inhales. The smell is sharper than that of the preserves in Inias’ kitchen, no cinnamon to dilute the sweet odor, but the effect is the same. Sam’s mouth begins to water, his stomach clenching with a final rally at hunger.

He’s not aware of being made to sit until he feels Lucifer’s fingers curved around his wrist, his knees bending under him as he sinks to the ground. His legs pressed up against the prickling grass, his back up against the trunk of the tree. Lucifer seated next to him, their knees touching. 

“Eat,” Lucifer tells him, inclining his head at the peach, but his voice is oddly soft. As tender as the fruit in Sam’s hand. 

He takes a bite, the fuzz rubbing against his mouth. The flesh of the fruit gives way easy under his teeth, taste exploding in his mouth, and he gasps out loud, feeling the different textures rub against his teeth and the insides of his cheeks. Chewing slow, setting the peach down on his thigh. His eyes on Lucifer’s the entire time, hyperaware of Lucifer’s hand on his knee, of the way Lucifer tracks his mouth moving.

A line of peach juice slips down his chin, escaping, and Lucifer leans in, wipes it off with his thumb. Brings his hand to his own mouth and sucks the juice in, and Sam inhales a second time, for a completely different reason. They’re so close Sam can count the hairs Lucifer missed while shaving. So close Sam can see his shirt move as his heart slams in his chest, near perfect echo of Sam’s own.

“Sam—” Lucifer starts. His voice so quiet, but the orchard is still, and Sam can hear him as clear as anything. Leaning in a little, his eyes on Sam’s mouth, and Sam parts his lips, wet and sweet and ready—

“Luci,” comes the voice, from somewhere near the back gate, and Sam flinches, realizing who it is. Draws back from Lucifer, on instinct, because there’s still the job, always the job. First, and before anything else, and Sam would be a fool to believe otherwise. 

Lucifer slides his eyes shut for a second. Exhales, bites his lower lip. His fingers clenching around Sam’s knee.

“Luci,” Azazel calls again, closer this time, and Lucifer stands up fast. The sudden movement of his leg knocking Sam’s causes the peach to roll off Sam’s thigh and hit the ground with a muted thud. He watches it, with its single bite taken out, roll across the ground a few inches and then stop.

“I’m here, Mr. Lehne,” Lucifer says, but his eyes are on Sam’s. Warning him to stay quiet, to not move, as he shifts just within Azazel’s vision range. “Lilith didn’t accommodate your needs well enough?”

“Only you really have an _understanding_ of what I prefer,” Azazel murmurs, and Sam shudders, clenching his teeth.

“Well,” Lucifer says, “let me see if I can help make your evening more comfortable.”

Azazel shifts closer; Sam can nearly feel his body heat. “Thank you, Luci, that would be—splendid.”

Lucifer glances one more time at Sam. His eyebrows lifted: _are you going to be okay?_ and Sam rolls his eyes, gestures out: _just go, already._ His fingers still twitching with the remembered cool of Lucifer’s skin. His mouth tingling with the almost-kiss, chin smeared with peach juice and everything inside him feels like it’s on fire. 

All of it reflected in Lucifer’s eyes, in the second they spend staring, in the secret dusk of the peach tree after sunset. 

Then Sam slips behind the tree, hidden, and Lucifer steps out to greet Azazel and lead him back to the house.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a function the following week. A gala, formal, and it’s not the first time Lucifer’s attended one but it is the first time he’s invited Sam. Coming up to the suite in the middle of the afternoon, when Sam’s curled up in his bed half-asleep trying to read about Leonardo da Vinci’s inventions. Lucifer’s fingers curling in his hair to wake him, slow stroking of his scalp for a few seconds, and Sam hums, his eyes mostly shut, faint smile on his face as he turns his head into Lucifer’s touch. 

“Do you have any clean suits?” Lucifer asks, his voice coming to Sam as if through water, and Sam mumbles:

“Dunno; you kinda make me come in a lot of them,” and is rewarded a moment later by Lucifer’s soft laughter. 

Sam forces his eyes open. The sun is hot on him, shining through the glass and onto his thick bedsheets, and it takes a lot of willpower for Sam not to invite Lucifer to just lie next to him for a minute. For Sam to remember that there’s still a line drawn, in the end, and Lucifer can’t spend that much time with someone he owns every single afternoon. Even if Lucifer’s just sitting on the edge of his bed now, hand drifting down to the line of his jaw. Jeweled fingers curved down against the warmth of Sam’s skin, and he wants to press into the touch forever. Never wants to be anywhere but right here.

“Why’re you asking?” Sam asks, with his eyes fixed on Lucifer’s hip.

Lucifer reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulls out a thick card. Paper the color of daffodils, ink the same shade of emerald as Lucifer’s rings, and it says: _Lucian Milton and companion, cordially invited—_

“Lucian?” Sam repeats, one eyebrow raised, and Lucifer glares, taps at the paper:

“ _Read,_ Sam.”

Sam snorts, shakes his head. Reads the rest of the note and props himself up on one elbow. 

“You want me to come to a party with your rich friends?”

Something shadowed and fleeting crosses Lucifer’s face. “They aren’t my friends, Sam,” he says, “but yes. I’m inviting you. ‘And companion.’ You would be the companion.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that—” Sam pushes himself up the rest of the way. Allowing Lucifer’s hand to fall with his body, running down from his jaw to his chest, and then along the length of his arm. His book fallen to the wayside, and he stares at the invitation again. 

“You really want _me_ to go with?” 

Lucifer’s fingers still on top of Sam’s hand. “Who else would I take,” he asks.

“Well, no—but it’s just—” Sam grits his teeth. Gestures at himself: long and lean and sixteen years old. Lying in bed at two in the afternoon and he’s wearing a pink satin thong under his casual trousers. “I know we go to dinner and you like talking to me but. If you want to go with someone like Lilith, or like Abaddon—” 

For the first time in a while, Lucifer looks marginally annoyed. “I invited _you,”_ he says. “I don’t enjoy these functions and I never have anyone to speak to at them, but I would if you came. They’re dull and the people are even more so, but they have food and wine and music, and I know you’ve been dancing every night for two weeks; you deserve a break.

“Besides,” with his hand on Sam’s cheek again, skating the line of his nose, over his eyelid, “you have no idea how good you look on my arm, Sam. The way we look together.”

Sam swallows. Helpless to do anything but press into the touch, and inhale the scent of cologne on Lucifer’s wrist. “I wanna go,” he admits, quiet.

“Good.” Lucifer moves his hand, allowing Sam to open his eyes again. Doesn’t even try disguising the gentle happiness in his voice at the prospect of having Sam come along. “We can pick your suit out together in a few hours.” 

He starts to move away. Only stops when Sam’s hand encloses around his wrist. “Luce.”

“Sam.”

“Will you,” and here Sam has to pause. Staring down at his hands, his cheeks flushed, and only Lucifer’s fingers brushing his skin give him the courage to continue: “You’ll stay with me the whole night, yeah? You won’t let me be alone with those people?”

Lucifer’s fingers tuck under Sam’s jaw, tilt his head up. Sam finds his gaze stuck on the soft red bow of Lucifer’s mouth again, where he still hasn’t ever touched. Wonders if it would be as cool as the rest of him, or if their lips pressed together would be as hot as they feel wrapped around his cock. 

“Not for a second,” Lucifer tells him, and Sam laughs, relieved. 

~

There’s a certain amount of presenting a façade expected with attending these galas. Lucifer knows, having been to so many in his lifetime. Practiced at deceiving people who don’t care enough to look closely, so long as you’re well-dressed and smiling. 

He walks in with Sam on his arm. Their shoulders brushing, Sam’s nose so close to Lucifer’s neck he can feel him breathing out warm puffs of air. Can feel the heat radiating off his body as if he were a furnace. The way his eyes scan the room, glancing at Lucifer out of the corner of his eyes and acting in accord with him. Smiling when Lucifer smiles, keeping his fingers tucked in the crook of Lucifer’s arm, and Lucifer knows they look well together. His cobalt suit and Sam’s dark emerald, both of them wearing rings—Sam’s a rich ochre stone, borrowed from Lucifer for the evening—and Sam’s eyelids faintly dusted with light blue eyeshadow. Just enough that Lucifer would not notice from a distance, but up close—

“You’re looking well tonight, Sam,” Lucifer says, when they’ve pulled their arms apart after the first ten minutes. Standing side-by-side at the buffet table, Sam’s ring clinking against his plate. 

Sam snorts. Nudges the edge of Lucifer’s hand with his fingers. “You practically arranged my entire outfit for me,” he says, “isn’t that just you attempting to get more praise for yourself?”

Lucifer’s mouth twitches. “And so what,” he says. “I buy all your clothes, I should get some credit.”

“So self-centered,” Sam murmurs, with his fingers pressed against a slice of melon on a tray. “Like you think I’m gonna just go down on you right here in front of everyone or something, just because you made me look halfway decent—”

“Halfway?” Teasing, his hand curved around Sam’s shoulder. Not possessive, not like it used to be. Scraping his thumb against the warm back of Sam’s neck, feeling the soft hairs there stand up under his touch. Staring at him, those gentle sad slanted eyes and the soft slope of his nose in profile. The lazy crush of hair against his nape, and Lucifer shifts his fingers up enough so that he can touch that, too. Hardly able to believe that Sam is his, after all these years. That Sam wants to be his. 

_(don’t forget you are sam’s too)_

Shaking that thought off for a later time, when he can dissect it properly, Lucifer comes back to the conversation in time to hear Sam say, “Okay, okay, you made me look _really_ good. Like I belong next to you. Jesus Christ, feels like I’m sucking your dick already—” 

Lucifer laughs, and feels the responding vibration come up through Sam’s throat. “You’re such a sweet talker, Sam,” he says, low. Watches pleased as a shiver runs up Sam’s spine, into the palm of his hand. 

“I learned from the best,” Sam mumbles, his hand leaving the fruit tray so he can turn a little in Lucifer’s grip. 

“You’d rather be on your knees for me right now, wouldn’t you,” Lucifer asks, mouth against Sam’s ear. “My fingers painful on your scalp while you draw me down your throat—”

“Ah, Christ, Luce—” Sam hisses, his eyes darting fervent and heated as a low flush crawls up the sides of his neck. Spilling into his cheeks, his irises darkening, and Lucifer brings his hand around from Sam’s neck to his jaw, thumb on his lower lip. 

“Or maybe you’d rather be stretched out on your bed back home while I suck bruises into your thighs.”

Sam’s hand slides down to press against his groin for a moment, his eyes sliding shut. Lucifer can tell from the near slack expression on his face that he’s forgotten they’re in public, people milling around beside them all the time—people who could afford to buy off Sam’s debts a hundred, a thousand times over, and not even blink. 

It’s all right, though. Lucifer’s sort of forgotten where they are, too. No one matters at all right now except Sam. The central focal point in his life, not just at the gala but always, and Lucifer thinks maybe it should scare him that it’s like that now, for them. 

“Luce, you—” Sam reaches up, rubs his hand against the back of his neck. “You can’t just _say_ shit like that, you dick—”

“What if I had you on your back,” Lucifer interrupts, his voice even quieter. Mouth still on Sam’s ear, his hand cupping Sam’s face. “What if you were spread out under me, and I was fucking you?”

Sam goes totally, utterly still. His body freezing up like he’s under attack. Stepping out from Lucifer’s touch, not a lot, just enough so that they’re looking into each other’s eyes again, and Lucifer cannot tell what Sam is thinking. What he’s feeling.

It’s quiet for a long, long time. Both of them just standing there staring at each other. Sam with one hand still on his neck, the other resting faint on the back of Lucifer’s. Until Lucifer starts to think he said something wrong, that Sam will be angry with him all evening, and he starts:

“You know, as per our contract, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”

“You really wanna fuck me?” Sam interrupts. He’s trembling, Lucifer can feel the soft vibrations through the tips of his fingers, but his eyes are banked back with barely held-in hope. A shining happiness that Lucifer isn’t used to, not even from Sam.

Lucifer swallows. Reaches out and pushes Sam’s hair back behind his ear. “I want to, yes,” he says. “I have for a while now.”

Sam’s whole face lights up. He reaches out to Lucifer’s own face, tucks his fingers under his jaw. Their food forgotten beside them. The whole world forgotten under their feet. Civilizations could rise and fall and Lucifer would not notice. 

“Tonight,” Sam tells him. “We could tonight, if you—”

“Yes,” Lucifer says. Immediate response, letting Sam smile and kiss the fruit juice off his thumb. “I still have a few people to visit with here, but afterwards we can go home—”

Sam’s nodding, frantic, like he’s afraid Lucifer will change his mind. “I’d love that,” he says, soft. His whole face flushed but his eyes are bright, his mouth curved at the corners. So that Lucifer can hardly help running his thumb over the crescent of it, Sam’s pretty thin rose-colored lips. Wondering what they’ll feel like on Lucifer’s own mouth, instead of wrapped around his cock. 

Wondering if this time will be different than the thousands of other times Lucifer’s fucked before, just because of who he’ll be with. What Sam means, to him. 

“Well,” Lucifer says, drawing his hands reluctant and slow to his sides, because he knows if he doesn’t stop touching Sam now, he never will. Takes a swig of champagne from a free-standing full glass beside his hand, and glances around the room. Hyperaware of Sam directly beside him the entire time, wearing that suit Lucifer just wants to tear off his body, watch those buttons pop and roll across the floor while Lucifer crooks his fingers in Sam’s tight heat and spreads. “Let’s go finish up our rounds, Sam.”

~

They spend a while wandering. Lucifer talking to people, greeting and shaking hands and pretending he cares. Sam just off to the side, a sort of inconstant shadow, hovering and nodding. His fingers tight around a champagne glass, and Lucifer can feel how tense he is. How very much he still dislikes being around other people, more specifically around _these_ people. The lavish wealth glittering in their ears and hanging from their necks and Sam’s smile is as thin as Lucifer’s. Growing thinner as the evening wears on. 

There’s a table covered in little sandwiches. Cubes of cheese impaled with toothpicks, cherries in a bowl. They stop there and Sam slides his hand down his face with a groan as a waiter refills his drink. 

“Tired?” Lucifer asks, reaching out with his left hand to pick a cherry from its china bowl. 

Sam plucks the fruit from his fingers, slips it into his own mouth. Red spreading out over his mouth as the juice sprays a little, and he grins, his teeth stained too. “Not so much,” Sam says. “Just thinking about later,” and his eyes drop to Lucifer’s mouth. Steady as he reaches over and takes his champagne back, and Lucifer watches him, the smirk curving his mouth, until he can’t anymore.

At some point he gets dragged into a conversation with a duchess and an American born into wealth piled higher than the Appalachians. Tense and annoyed and glancing at his watch, Lucifer attempts social niceties for a full half hour—would’ve been ten minutes, except the duchess had a friend who claimed to be interested in Lucifer’s services—and then “I’m sorry,” he says, “I have to go.” Turning to the side, losing their interest immediately, and he opens his mouth to ask Sam if he’s ready but Sam isn’t there.

Lucifer snorts, rolls his eyes. _Don’t leave me alone with these people,_ the kid had said, but he’s gone and done just that. Probably got bored listening to the conversation, or maybe irritated with the glib way the duchess’ friend spoke of Lucifer’s brothel. He snags one of the last remaining cherries from their pretty little dish, crushes it between his teeth. Eyes scanning the slowly thinning crowd for dark emerald, or a shock of soft dark hair, but he can’t see Sam at all. 

Which is—odd. Because Sam and Lucifer are two of the tallest people here, and Sam is certainly the youngest; he shouldn’t be difficult to find. Lucifer presses through the millionaires milling about, soft tinkling laughter and the clink of rings on glass, smell of money in the air. A soft hushed feeling in the room that means the evening is starting to wind down. The moon glowing out the eastern windows, a cluster of stars hovering over a group of trees. 

Sam isn’t standing beside the windows looking out. He isn’t eating the last of the food scattered across the tables, or leaning against the wall languid and bored, or waiting for Lucifer beside the entrance. Someone asks, “Where is that beautiful boy you came here with, Luci?” and then there’s a faint pang in Lucifer’s chest. A dull sense of anxiety growing louder with each passing second that his eyes haven’t landed on Sam.

 _Have you seen Sam?_ he asks everyone. _The guest I brought?_ Keeping his voice as neutral as he can, his eyes flat, but he’s shaking, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the inside of his elbow. Biting his lower lip until the skin breaks, so he’ll have something else to focus on beside the fact that he’s looked in every corner of the building and Sam is _gone._

Outside, Thaddeus is waiting parked in their steam-powered carriage, cigarette smoke trailing into the sky in a thin mournful line. Lucifer moves to the carriage as fast as he can without running, feet stirring up gravel. Wrenches the back door open, but Sam isn’t in there either. Isn’t waiting for Lucifer with a careless smirk on his lean face, ready for all the dark promises Lucifer’s given him, and Lucifer moves to the driver’s seat, glares at Thaddeus.

“Where is Sam,” he snarls. Aware that Thaddeus hasn’t taken him, but only on one level. His nerves are frayed, his anxiety shot so high it’s gone atmospheric. There’s a ringing in his ears, a persistent voice in his head hissing _something’s not right something’s not right._

Thaddeus crushes his cigarette out on the gunmetal exterior of the carriage. “He isn’t with you?”

Fear blazes up in Lucifer’s chest and right then he knows he’ll never be able to smell the acrid stench of cigarette smoke again without thinking of this night. “Of course he isn’t with me,” Lucifer snaps. “Why would I be asking if he was with me?”

“He came out here a while ago,” Thaddeus says. “Asked me to get the carriage ready for driving, that he just had to run back in and use the facilities and get you and—”

“When was this?” Voice sharp, angry. Sweat starting to bead along the edge of his hairline.

“A while ago, Lucifer, I’m sorry, I don’t—maybe fifteen minutes ago? Twenty?”

But Lucifer’s already tearing back inside. His heart in his throat as he heads for the restrooms, the one place he forgot to look—

Shoving the swing door open and there’s Sam, lying face-down in the corner, his head turned away from the door. Not moving when Lucifer calls his name and Lucifer figures he’s passed out from the amount of champagne he was drinking, unused to it coming on that strong—

Except there’s blood smeared on the wall.

Except there’s bloodstains gone dark on the seat of his trousers, his clothes ripped up beyond repair. 

Except, as Lucifer edges closer, he begins to smell iron and salt and sex and there’s semen between Sam’s legs, his ass exposed under artful folds of ruined pants—

And a note. Pinned to the back of his jacket. Elegant script, faint rust stains in the corners where it was held, and Lucifer knows that handwriting. Knows it even as he’s shaking, as he tastes saltwater between his lips. Enough transactions done in the past with that bastard, never knew when to let things go, that Sam would never belong to him, no matter what he—no matter how hard he tried—

Lucifer wipes the tears from his cheeks and reads Azazel’s note on his knees on the dirty bathroom tile:

_Next time you steal something from me, Luci—make sure you keep it locked tighter than this._


	6. Chapter 6

The brothel has a basement. Originally a storage room for dated costumes and broken equipment, Lucifer had it converted into a hospital of sorts early on in his career. More useful that way, in case a dancer fell and broke their leg. Or if an overweight client had a heart attack on top of some unsuspecting consort. Any number of things that could go wrong, and Lucifer knows that if his children get sick they have nowhere to go for treatments, so. A basement hospital it became. A way to gain more money, if nothing else.

He doesn’t think about it very often, mostly because his clients don’t have heart attacks and his children stay clean, but. He’s thinking about it now. Running in from the carriage, Sam’s unconscious bleeding body 

_(did you bleed this much lucian the first time)_

carried in his arms. Going through the back door to avoid being seen, and he ignores Ruby and Meg, standing confused near the entrance of the dining hall, and nearly breaks the basement door down in his effort to get inside. Down the cold flight of stairs and into a flickering hall. Sheer white tile on the floor, plaster walls. There are a few wings that branch off from the main hall but the one Lucifer wants, the largest and most fully equipped, is at the end. Overseen by Alastair Heyerdahl, Lucifer’s head doctor almost since he converted the basement, and his methods are far from conventional, but he knows what he’s doing. Knows his way around a scalpel and on the operating table and Lucifer despises him but. There’s nothing else he can do, and Sam. Sam is.

_(dying he’s going to die it’s going to be your fault all your fault you didn’t stop azazel fast enough how could you not have known)_

Sam’s body is propped at an awkward angle in Lucifer’s arms, and he can’t knock without jostling Sam’s neck. All he can do is lift his foot and slam it into the door, feeling the wood jar and shudder in its hinges every time he kicks. _“Alastair,”_ he yells, voice echoing through the hospital chambers. “Open this fucking door right now come on _come on_ where the fuck _are_ you you completely useless _prick_ —”

The door opens. Revealing Alastair in his white doctor’s coat, sneering the way he does. His eyes moving from Lucifer to Sam and back, and the smirk grows wider.

“Don’t tell me,” he starts. “You and your little—hmm, favored slut had a party, and things got a bit rough—”

“Sam’s been raped,” Lucifer snarls, ignoring the way the words slam into his chest every time he so much as thinks them. Shifting Sam higher up in his arms, stroking his cheek. Remembering

_(“Drive,” Lucifer says, almost wrenching the door off its hinges as he shoves his way into the carriage. Sam moaning unconscious and painful as Lucifer settles them in the backseat. His cheeks sticky with sweat and Lucifer wipes them with his thumb, smacks Thaddeus on the shoulder when all he does is gape at them from his seat._

_“ **Drive** ,” he repeats, pressing Sam’s face into his collar.)_

the carriage ride home as he glares at Alastair. As cold and impatient as he can make his expression right now, considering. Still holding Sam as though he’s been spun from broken glass, shaking and devastated. Thinking of Sam alone in that bathroom. Of Sam being approached from behind. Of Sam—

_(did azazel knock him out first or did he fuck him before)_

_(chest clenching as he lifts sam off the bathroom floor sam’s blood smeared on the tiles sam whimpering and pushing at lucifer’s chest and all lucifer can hear in his mind are screams)_

“Save your assumptions for later,” Lucifer says. “I want him fixed _now.”_

“Of course, of course.” Alastair mock bows, opens the door wider to let Lucifer in. There’s an operating table in one corner, two beds for patients to recuperate on. The training doctors, Casey and Samhain, are talking quietly off to the side, but the second Lucifer comes in they straighten up. Casey staring in shock at Sam’s prostrate form, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes, as Lucifer lays Sam down on the operating table and steps back just enough for Alastair to get in. His shoulders are tense and shaking, his jaw clenched. Staring at his boy, his Sam, lying there on the too-white sheets. His hair a chestnut halo around his beautiful face, eyes shut, and Lucifer could pretend he was just sleeping if it wasn’t for the bruises. The blood and semen streaming down between his legs. The distressed line between his eyebrows. 

There’s a trickle of blood coming from Sam’s hairline, small fractured thing breaking lightning-shaped patterns down Sam’s skin, and Lucifer reaches out. Brushes it off with his thumb, smoothing Sam’s hair

_(you weren’t there he screamed for you he cried and begged and pleaded and you were gone)_

back from his face. Knowing nothing he does now will ever even begin to make up for the fact that he _abandoned Sam._

Alastair jostles him with his elbow. “Save your sentiments, Luci,” he says. “Unless you’re keen on, hmm, letting him die?” He pushes himself into the space where Lucifer was, leaves Lucifer grasping at empty air. His chest tight, aching worse than it has in years. 

Casey and Samhain rush over with tools and the three of them start working, stitching up and pressing down, as Lucifer stands directly to the side. His arms folded across his chest, mouth set tight because he’s afraid he might start crying if he lets go. Alastair has to cut Sam’s pants off, they’re stuck too tight to his legs from the blood, and Lucifer stares at the opposite wall. Thinks of all the opportunities he had to get out of that conversation faster. How Sam was cornered in the bathroom while Lucifer was talking about the cost of jewels in Glasgow. Sam was being raped while Lucifer was giving price estimates on his best whores.

Alastair asks, conversational, “So if it wasn’t you, Luci—who stuck their cock in him? Who—hmm, ripped him open like this?”

Lucifer shuts his eyes for a moment. “You’d do well to remember the advantages of silence right now, Heyerdahl—”

“Merely curious,” Alastair murmurs. “Of course, we both know there are only a select few clients of yours that would actually _dare_ to touch Sam—lay their, hmm— _filthy_ fingers on his skin—” His eyes flick up to Lucifer’s for a moment, mouth laughing, and then “It was Lehne, wasn’t it,” he says. Contemplative. “He always did have a—hmm, _penchant_ for your little Sammy here—”

_(azazel’s fingers crawling over sam’s skin)_

“How much is the price for you to keep your overactive mouth shut, Alastair?” Lucifer asks, his eyes refusing to let him look at the stitches. At Sam’s trembling frame. 

Alastair laughs, dry whispering hiss. “Azazel always did try to outdo himself,” he murmurs. “Certainly got your attention, though, didn’t it,” and only the fact that he’s working on Sam prevents Lucifer from lunging across the operating room and breaking his neck. 

Then Alastair says, “Sam will live.” Steps back, watching Sam for a moment, and he adds, “Better not fuck him for at least a week—useless for taking it up the ass, still good for sucking cock though—”

_(mouth wasn’t damaged when he stuck it in your ass was it now get on your knees boy you’re worth more with a throat full of semen)_

“Ten thousand pounds,” Lucifer interrupts, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out his checkbook. His jaw clenched tight, hands fumbling for something to do. If only to prevent himself from slamming his fist into Alastair’s face. To keep himself occupied so he won’t vomit all over the alabaster floor. “You can keep your filthy mouth shut about all this if you get that much, can’t you?”

“Of course, Luci.” He’s still sneering, facing Lucifer completely now as Casey and Samhain clean Sam up and wrap him in a hospital gown. “Wouldn’t want to damage your—hmm, reputation, now would we,” and Lucifer’s fingers shake as he scrawls out the check. Rips it out and hands it to Alastair, who slips it into his own pocket, pats it a few times. Gives Sam a last glance and nods once, says the stitches are dissolvable and Sam doesn’t need to stay the night, and that’s it. Loses interest in Lucifer immediately after he becomes ten thousand pounds richer, turning away, and Lucifer very carefully lifts Sam up 

_(i’m sorry sam i’m so sorry)_

off the operating table. 

Casey hands him a salve. “Apply this—or, I guess, let _him_ apply it—goes on every other day until the wound’s healed—” She’s staring at Sam, biting her lip. Looking upset and concerned and Lucifer hates that he can only despise her for being the one to take care of Sam. Hates that he wasn’t able to do much of anything to protect Sam. That he didn’t prevent this from happening.

_(history sure does have a way of repeating itself)_

He carries Sam out and up the basement stairs, and his chest aches a little more with each step. 

~

There’s a fever. 

For three days, Sam has a fever. Sweating and tossing on the once-cool sheets of Lucifer’s bed, Lucifer wiping his face down with a wet cloth. Watching Sam’s cheeks flush as he gasps and moans and all Lucifer can do is open the window, pat him down with the washrags. Listen to him whimper and cry out and know there’s still nothing he can do. Nothing at all to make this better. 

Knowing if he had just been there five minutes earlier—

Three days of watching Sam thrash around unconscious and hurting. Sweat pooling in the hollow of his neck and his inability to breathe is caging Lucifer’s own chest. Instinct makes him reach out to touch, to brush Sam’s hair off his forehead—and Sam flinches back. Jerks away from Lucifer’s fingers, little upset sound coming up from his throat and that furrow starts to reappear between his eyebrows. Still not awake but Lucifer freezes anyway. His whole body going still and stiff, his hand curling on itself as he watches Sam roll over and curl up a little in self-defense, and Lucifer’s mouth is dry. His heart cold and barely working when he lowers his hand, flexes his fingers on the sheets. 

~

Sam wakes up slow, in increments. His head feels muzzy, a blur of dissatisfaction and pain he can’t make his way through. Vague memories 

_(i want you i have for a long while now)_

swirling through his head, clanging around the sore places in his skull and making him wince, but for the most part. For the most part Sam’s having trouble remembering anything. His whole body aches, deep vicious pull in his muscles like he ran ten miles, and there’s a sour taste in the back of his mouth.

He hisses soft through his teeth and forces his eyes open a crack. Sees Lucifer sitting directly beside his bed—or, on closer inspection, Lucifer’s _own_ bed—and he’s watching Sam. Just watching, but there’s none of the intensity from when their relationship was new. None of the barely repressed anger and lust lurking in the backs of his irises. There’s an emotion there, but Sam can’t define it. His mind not working at full capacity, and he runs his tongue over his lips, opens his mouth.

“Hey, Luce,” he says, voice coming out rough and ragged like he’s been deepthroating for too long. “Time is it?”

Lucifer’s gaze flicks from Sam’s eyes to his chest and back, fast enough that Sam thinks he might have imagined it. “Sam,” he starts, and then stops. Like that was the full sentence. 

Sam starts to push himself up on one elbow and then stops. Pain ratcheting down his side, blooming in his skull, and he groans, falling back against the mattress. _“Christ,”_ he gasps out. “How much champagne did I drink?”

An odd fleeting expression crosses Lucifer’s face, there and gone in an instant. “Sam, you,” Lucifer starts. Sounding almost hesitant, his hand coming out like he wants to touch Sam’s and then dropping back immediately to his side. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

 _That’s bullshit,_ Sam wants to say, incredulous, but his mind won’t let him. Too stuck on the logistics of it, and it makes sense. His sore muscles, his cracked throat. The way he can barely get his eyes to focus on any one thing in the room for over three seconds. His head hurts like he’s been sleeping off the hangover of the century, and his tunic is a little damp, sweat or water, Sam can’t tell. Asks:

“Why was I—” and Lucifer says:

“The champagne made you pass out.” His voice clipped, taut, and he won’t look directly at Sam. “The next morning you had a fever, and it spiked quick enough to keep you under for a while.”

“Oh.” Sam frowns a little, his mind searching for the memory, but he’s coming up blank. Everything still just as dark and hollow as it was five minutes ago, and he sighs, stares up at the ceiling.

_(we could tonight—)_

Sam cuts his eyes over to Lucifer and cranks out a half-smile, hoping to break this weird uneasy tension he can feel building up between them. “Did we fuck, at least?”

Lucifer’s whole body jerks like Sam’s slapped him. Badly startled, and he stares up at Sam for a few seconds, his eyes wide, drained. “What?”

“I can’t remember,” Sam explains. “Was there sex before I got this fever?” He pauses, his fingers clenched under the bed sheets. That odd expression still on Lucifer’s face, wrecked and unhappy like he hasn’t gotten much sleep either. “Or was it so bad that I blocked it out of my memory?” Teasing now, gentle, but Lucifer flinches again. His mouth set, eyes on the wall opposite Sam’s head, and he says:

“We didn’t have sex, no.” Clears his throat, fingers flexing on the bedrail. “You passed out first.”

“Oh.” Sam’s chest swells with his disappointment. “Shit, Luce. I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” Lucifer interrupts. A little sharp, a little tense, and Sam blinks. “Don’t. It isn’t. It’s not your fault, Sam. I don’t mind.”

Sam swallows. The back of his throat still sore, and he’s tempted to ask Lucifer if he at least got a blowjob in before he fucking fainted on him but the expression on Lucifer’s face—

Sam reaches out. Brushes his hand against Lucifer’s cheek, and Lucifer stares at him, as though Sam touching him is some foreign unfamiliar thing. “We can do it sometime soon,” Sam says, quiet. Hesitant. “When I’m not still running a fever.”

Lucifer doesn’t answer. His hand comes out for a second to touch Sam’s, careful stroke of his fingertips across the backs of Sam’s knuckles, and then. Then he’s standing, fast. Smoothing his hand down his front, and he says:

“Now that you’re awake, I need to go check on the status of my brothel. Lilith’s been in charge for the last few days.”

“Oh,” Sam murmurs, “okay.”

Lucifer pauses midway to the door. His shoulders so tense Sam can see the outline of his muscles through his shirt. “I’ll be back later,” he tells him. “To check on you.”

“Yeah.” Sam bites his lower lip trying to keep his smile up, but Lucifer won’t even look at him. “Yeah, okay.”

Then Lucifer’s gone, and Sam lays back on the mattress. Still sore, so much that he can feel his bones throbbing against the bed, and he wonders what it is Lucifer isn’t telling him.


	7. Chapter 7

Things get strange, after that. 

Not all at once, not at first. The afternoon immediately following when Sam regains consciousness, there’s a massive banquet. The duchess and her friend have decided to come, and Lucifer, aware of the value of new rich clientele, is doubling his staff for the evening. Twice the waiters, twice the dancers, twice the amount of consorts available. Sam’s sitting with him in his office, watching as he organizes the lists, signs the names on. They’ve been sitting together since the morning, but they haven’t spoken in hours. Lucifer won’t even look at Sam, won’t pause in his writing to smirk at him, lascivious and dark. Won’t reach out and stroke along the inside of his thigh, or flirt, or tease, or say _fuck it_ and shove all his papers to the side, spread Sam out flat on the desk. 

Which—yeah, okay, Lucifer has a lot to get done, but. That’s never stopped him before, not when it comes to Sam. Not when it means the two of them sitting 

_(lying, straddling, kneeling between each other’s legs)_

for hours, just them together. Like there’s no one else

_(“Don’t you have papers to fill out for those new clients?” Sam asks, his hand in Lucifer’s hair. The sun warm on their faces as they lay out together, stretched in the dirt of the rose garden._

_“No,” Lucifer mumbles against Sam’s neck. His fingers curled against Sam’s free hand, where it rests between them. Nudging light against his knuckles, stroking over his skin._

_Sam snorts, lets his eyes slide shut. “That’s no way to run a brothel, Luce,” he says, sleepy and content._ You’re acting like we’re a real couple, _he wants to say, but. He knows better._

 _“I’m allowed to take a break from my own establishment for an afternoon,” Lucifer protests, no real heat in his voice as he lifts his hand to stroke his thumb along Sam’s forehead. “It’s in my contract,” and they laugh, quiet, Sam shifting so he can tuck his face against Lucifer’s shoulder, soft indefinable ache in his chest.)_

in the whole world. No one else except them. 

So it’s a little strange. But Sam’s still feeling kind of bad from his fever, body sore and aching when he tries to sit properly. Throat hurting and every joint screams if he moves too fast, so he’s not exactly in a rush to. To push for things to go back to normal.

But it would be nice if Lucifer would look at him.

“Hey,” Sam says. Chin propped up on his forearms, head tilted the way he’s seen Lucifer do so many times now. “Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s pen stills for an instant. 

“You know,” Sam says, trying to keep his concern from coming through, “I had a fever. It’s not gonna. You won’t catch anything if you look up.” He slides his arms out from under his jaw. Moves his hand down, as slow and subtle as he’s able, until his fingers are crawling against Lucifer’s knee, dancing up the inside of his thigh—and Lucifer tenses, pulls back. Dragging a hand down his face, and he says:

“Not right now, Sam,” which—

“Hey, I’m not a child.” Frowning, sitting up straight. _You wanted to fuck me a few nights ago,_ he almost says. _You said you’d wanted it for a long time._

Lucifer’s hand drags through the fine hairs at the top of his head, where everything is light and soft and smells like roses. “You’re _sixteen,”_ he says, this odd stricken expression on his face. 

“You’ve had Brady on his back for years, Lucifer,” Sam says, “and he’s two months younger than I am.”

Lucifer’s eyes slide shut for an instant. “Sam—”

“No, I mean, really. You have kids two, three years younger than me spreading their legs and opening their mouths and you want to talk to me right now about _my_ age? You can’t sit there and ask me to be a teenager but still know how to take your cock down my throat—”

“You had the fever,” Lucifer interrupts, voice taut, nearing the end of his patience. “And I have a massive dinner to prepare for. The world isn’t going to end if we don’t. If neither of us gets off right now.” He looks down fast, pen scratching at the paper again, but Sam doesn’t miss that pained line coming back over his nose. The way his shoulders tense and then slump, like he can’t decide how he’d rather hold whatever it is that’s making him grieve. 

It’s quiet for a while. The mechanized clock ticking soft on the wall. The sounds of laughter and conversation coming up from the parlor as the first guests begin to arrive, and Sam takes a deep breath.

“Who’s on your list for extra dancers?” he asks, scanning the paper upside down. _Sarah,_ he reads. _Cassie. Meg. Drew. Brady. Hannah. Ajay._ Down the list, ten, fifteen more names, and—

“Lucifer,” Sam says, the vague annoyance from earlier beginning to resurface. “How come I’m not on here?” His gaze flicks to wait staff, but. No. Lucifer’s put Ruby and Casey on but not him, and it doesn’t. It doesn’t make any _sense,_ Sam isn’t. He’s not.

“This is a huge fucking dinner,” he says. Aware that he’s whining, aware that Lucifer’s knuckles have gone white around his pen, but—“Listen,” he says fast, “I know I was sick, I know I’m still sore, but I’m okay for this, it’s just one night, you got lots of other kids to—”

“No.” Lucifer’s voice is surprisingly quiet, but there’s a cold firmness to it that Sam hasn’t heard in a long time. “Absolutely not, Sam.”

Sam blinks. “I’m _fine,_ Luce—”

“I’m pulling you off wait staff and dancing,” Lucifer says. Still not looking up. Reciting the words like they’re meaningless. Like he’s not even listening to what he’s saying, like he doesn’t care. Like he has no idea of the crushing weight slamming down onto Sam’s chest. “You’re still too weak for either and my establishment can’t afford something like a collapsing consort in the middle of a number—”

“You mean you can’t afford me to be an embarrassment,” Sam snaps. Shoving his chair back and standing up. Heading for the door and Lucifer’s voice stops him like he’s yanked him back on a chain:

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back up to our suite,” Sam growls. “Since I have no fucking _purpose_ for the evening, can’t touch you, can’t touch anyone else—”

Lucifer shoves his chair back and stands too. He’s trembling. Looks _furious,_ upset and angry and distressed and Sam doesn’t understand. “You’ll stay here until I can get Ruby to escort you upstairs,” he says, and, “I don’t want you wandering the halls alone, Sam.”

“What the hell, Lucifer,” Sam says. “What, you’re getting me a fucking _babysitter?_ Jesus—I mean, you realize I’ve been walking the halls by myself for years,” and Lucifer’s nostrils flare out.

“Just another change you’ll get used to,” he says. “Don’t act like such a child about this. Now sit down before I make you,” but he’s not moving, not even when Sam edges as slow as possible back to his seat, glaring at Lucifer the whole time. Feeling spiteful and annoyed and upset, because they’ve barely spoken in the two days since Sam woke and now they’re fighting for the first time in weeks, but Sam has the feeling that Lucifer would not have touched him even if he’d left the room. 

So things are strange now, between them. Strange and tense in a way they’ve never been, even before Lucifer bought Sam off, and Sam. Sam doesn’t like it. He doesn’t think Lucifer was serious about having Ruby go everywhere with him, but every time he turns around now—Ruby. Her dark hair falling down her bare shoulders, arms folded, and she never looks any happier than Sam feels. 

“What’s he doing,” Sam asks her, miserable, one rainy afternoon when he’s curled up in Lucifer’s office. Alone, with Ruby right outside the door, and Lucifer had jarred him awake that morning. Forced him to get dressed and come downstairs, and then put him in his office for the day. Told Sam he had to stay there, something about Lucifer not being able to keep an eye on him

_(“Well, if you’re going to London, I wanna come,” Sam says, confused. Because Lucifer never goes to the city without Sam. The two of them wandering the cobblestone streets together in their matching suits, Lucifer swinging his walking stick and making Sam laugh at the picture he paints of attempted normalcy. Both of them taking their time at meals, nudging each other’s feet under the table. Sam reaching out to brush crumbs off Lucifer’s collar, Lucifer stealing sips from Sam’s glass—_

_“Not this time,” Lucifer says. Short, and without looking up, but Sam sees the way he looks at Ruby once before turning. “You’re still recovering—”_

_“Sure, except it’s been a week and a half—”_

_“—and if I can’t be here to watch out for you, you have to stay in my office. Ruby will look out for you.” Raising his eyebrows at her, daring her to say anything, and she shrugs, flips her hair over her shoulder._

_“I don’t need someone looking after me if you aren’t here, Lucifer, I’m not an infant—” but Lucifer’s already out the door.)_

and Sam’s pretty sick of the bullshit, but. There’s nothing he can do. Not when Lucifer won’t even breathe in his direction, most days. 

Ruby shifts against the wall. “What do you mean?” Her voice carefully constructed, bitten down at the edges, and Sam’s fingers still where they’re drumming against the top of Lucifer’s desk. 

“I mean what’s he playing at,” Sam asks. “This whole new overprotective thing. He hasn’t let me be alone in days, Ruby. I don’t like it, it’s annoying as hell.”

Ruby’s quiet for a long minute. “Maybe he finally realized what an absolute pain in the ass you are,” she says, “and he’s trying to irritate you into submission.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam grumbles. Flipping through Lucifer’s papers now, to see if he can find the answer, but it isn’t there. No hidden agendas. No ulterior motives Sam can find. Just Lucifer, acting weird. Keeping Sam at arm’s length about spending time together, the way they used to, but refusing to let Sam go off by himself anymore. This deep, heavy sadness in his eyes that he immediately shoves back when he catches Sam looking. 

He’s terrible at hiding things when he thinks he’s not being watched. Can’t keep secrets at all, not with Sam. Wears his emotions like they’ve been cursed onto his face, always either sad or angry or a mix of both and Sam wants in so bad, and it hurts even worse that Lucifer won’t let him. 

“All that frustration,” Sam says to him, one of the rare moments when they’re in the same room. “It’s gotta go somewhere, huh?”

“What do you—Sam. What are you talking about.”

Sam unfolds himself from his chair. He hasn’t danced or waited tables in two and a half weeks but he can still feel his muscles flex and tense under his skin. Knows he looks good, the way Lucifer’s eyes drift for a moment before snapping back up to somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. 

“We haven’t fucked yet,” Sam explains. A little sarcastic, because he’s not sure how else he’s supposed to get Lucifer’s attention. “And you. I don’t know. You won’t touch me anymore, but you never let me be alone, either, so I’m wondering—where does it go?” He starts forward, hand twitching at his side. Unsure what he’s intent on, exactly, except that he wants to—to just get his hands on Lucifer, just for a second—

And Lucifer moves away. Expression shutting down, mouth thinning. “I have better things to do than argue with you about whether or not we’re having sex,” he snaps, hand on the doorknob.

Sam snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. What are you trying to do, Lucifer, get me to beg you to rewrite that part of the contract where we’re mutually exclusive to each other? Because guess what, it’s working—” A lie, of course, because there’s no one else Sam would ever spread his legs for except Lucifer, but the door’s already slamming shut in his face, and soon only the quiet shuffling sound of Ruby moving around outside can be heard over the low roar building up in Sam’s head.

He wonders if it’s finally happened. If Lucifer is, in fact, ready to take on someone else besides Sam. If that one failed night at the gala, Sam getting so drunk he passed out

_(must’ve thought you were pathetic lying there all sweaty and drunk can’t even hold your own liquor no wonder he doesn’t want you now)_

has really driven Lucifer away this much. If he’s looking for someone more experienced

_(not like you haven’t been telling yourself that would happen anyway right from the beginning)_

and less likely to make a fool of themselves in front of a crowd. If Sam was just something Lucifer intended on playing with for a few weeks, just something to take for a simulation run before moving on to the actual game. The whole idea of Lucifer giving Sam to someone else, passing down Sam with his issues and his inexperienced body and his debts to another paying client. The notion hurts far more than it should. Far more than Sam wants to admit, and he’s annoyed that Lucifer holds that much sway over his emotions even now. After he’s been treating him like a prisoner in his own home, like. Like Sam’s poison to look at. To think about. To touch. 

But that can’t be right. Not even necessarily because they signed that contract and they had a few good weeks together, but because. Because Lucifer is still doing the littlest things for Sam. When he thinks Sam won’t notice, though of course Sam notices all of it, and resents and craves in equal measure the attention he’s half-receiving. No longer publicly Lucifer’s favorite—mostly because Sam’s not allowed out anywhere near any other people—but Lucifer still has Inias cook Sam’s favorite meals, send them up to the suite. Still has new books delivered, piles upon piles of them. As though the brothel needs _more_ academia, more cracked-cover novels about drifting piles of sand through Egypt and the slow spin of galaxies through the universe. Sam finds them outside his door almost every morning, boxed up and smelling like parchment. Devours them, his fingers tripping over new inky secrets, hungry and aching for knowledge the way he always is, though Sam wishes he could share it with Lucifer. Tries every day to talk to him, to strike up conversations about the Library of Alexandria or some confusing Latin conjugation. His fingers drifting across the backs of seats, trying to close in on Lucifer’s shoulder; drifting slow against Lucifer’s legs; but Lucifer just keeps walking out of the rooms they occupy. Looking more and more exhausted as each day passes, and Sam grits his teeth and tolerates Ruby only because she never speaks to him and wonders how much it would cost him to just leave. 

Because whatever Lucifer is doing. With the clothes, and the food, and the fact that he still hasn’t sold Sam off—whatever this is all adding up to, it doesn’t balance out the fact that Sam’s being restricted. First time in his stay here, Lucifer’s placed a restraint on his movements, and Sam doesn’t like it. It’s merely annoying, the first few weeks, but when a month has passed and Lucifer’s still treating Sam like he’s contagious from a fever he barely even remembers—Sam begins to despise him for it.


	8. Chapter 8

_(a fist in his hair breath hot on his neck voice whispering “mine mine mine” over and over hands fumbling at his waist dirty stench of blood in his nose—)_

Sam jerks awake. Chest heaving, sweat already gathered in his hair and now rolling down his temples, stinging salty and unwanted at his eyes. Thick bitter taste in his mouth and he can’t tell if he wants to swallow or vomit. 

_(where the hell did that come from)_

His teeth are chattering as he sits up, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders and staring into the smudged dark of his room. His wardrobe, opposite the end of his bed, looms vaguely menacing in the dim blue gleam of moonlight and he has a strange urge to jump up, tip it over. Fingers clenching around his knees as he remembers

 _(fingers in his trousers someone not lucifer licking obscenities against his skin)_

snatches of the dream. When he swallows, his throat is dry. Sore. 

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, intent on stumbling into the bathroom for water, and finds Lucifer already opening his bedroom door with a glass. 

“Here,” he says, voice lost in the night. “I heard. I mean. You were moving, and—”

Sam stands, takes the glass. The most Lucifer has offered him in thirty days. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.” Draws down long gulping sips, struggling to wash the taste away. To sooth the cracked burnt sensation way down deep. 

Then: “You have got to be the lightest sleeper, Lucifer, I barely even got out of bed.”

“It wasn’t just your movements that woke me,” Lucifer says, eyes on the carpet. “You were crying out.”

_(screaming)_

“I had a nightmare,” Sam admits. Finishing his water and setting the empty glass on his nightstand. “It, um. It was pretty fucked up—”

Lucifer’s gaze jerks up fast, pulled on a string. “What do you remember?”

Sam tilts his head at this reaction. “Just—” He hesitates, thinking of a way to describe—thinking if he tells Lucifer, he’ll think Sam doesn’t want sex anymore, that he’s not ready— 

“Just the feeling that it was fucked up,” he lies. “I have no idea what the details were.” He walks forward a step, half intent on placing a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “It was just a dream,” he says, and lifts his arm, but his fingers close on empty space. Lucifer backing up again, and—okay. That’s enough.

“The fuck is your problem, Lucifer,” Sam snaps. Arms folded, facing off in the shadows. His breath coming quick and short and sharp and he’s trembling, residue of the dream still clinging to him. “You ignore me for a month—a fucking _month_ —except to dump expensive shit in my lap like you think I want it, and then you come in here, you give me a glass of water—” He draws in a breath, fists clenched—“Standing there telling me you heard me cry out in my sleep and you won’t even _touch_ me, Lucifer—” 

He shakes as he steps forward. One foot in front of the other, eyes on Lucifer’s, cold sapphire gleaming neutral light. His mouth still dry and tasting faintly rotten, but it’s been too long. Lucifer doesn’t stand a chance when Sam’s this keyed up. “Come on,” he mutters under his breath, getting Lucifer backed up all the way against the door. His fingers hovering in the air over Lucifer’s trousers. Kneeling, his heart in his throat, staring up at Lucifer the whole time as he starts to undo the clasp—

 _“No,”_ Lucifer says, and steps back. His jaw tense, eyes pleading, not trying for once to hide it from Sam, but in this situation Sam wishes he would. He falls back against his heels, staring at a spot somewhere on Lucifer’s midriff, feeling his face grow warm with embarrassment. Lucifer’s rejection of Sam’s obvious attempt at sucking him off the way they used to slamming into his mind full force, something discordant ringing in his ears and he clambers to his feet, biting his lower lip so hard he can feel the skin crack.

“I _want,”_ he says. Loud and angry and ready to shove his fists into Lucifer’s face. “I didn’t stop wanting after the party, Lucifer. Did you—I mean. Have you been avoiding this because I was sick? I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I. The fever’s _gone,_ I don’t get it—why don’t you want—why can’t we just go back to how we were?”

“Because we _can’t,”_ Lucifer says, his expression warning Sam to stop, but his mouth keeps moving of its own accord, a month of silence built up and spilling over:

“Bullshit excuse,” Sam snarls, and Lucifer raises his eyebrows. “Either you still want me or you don’t, but you can’t give me expensive shit and then say you don’t want my mouth on your cock anymore.” He pauses, arms folded, watching. Waiting for Lucifer to _react,_ already, but there’s _nothing._

Sam takes a breath. “What if I just went in and got rid of that mutually exclusive part of our contract,” he says. “Then I could just whore myself out to any man I saw—could give Azazel what he wanted, maybe—”

And _there’s_ the reaction he’s been looking for. Lucifer’s fist slamming into the wall, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you _dare_ —” he starts, vicious, barely controlling the raw fury in his voice. Shaking so bad Sam can see his muscles rippling. “If you had just whored yourself out when you were younger, like everyone else here, I wouldn’t have had to buy you now at sixteen, when you’re too insolent and stubborn to make anyone else a good purchase—”

That bitter taste from Sam’s dream returns. Floods his mouth and his throat and he has to work at not spilling the contents of his stomach all over Lucifer’s shoes. “You’re so sick of me,” he says, loud and harsh, fists clenched at his sides, “why don’t you just fucking cut out my contract entirely? Why don’t you just sell me to Azazel, that’s what he’s wanted for months now anyway—”

Hand on his face, crack like lightning. Stinging burning bright hot sensation and the taste of blood exploding in his mouth, sharp cut as his teeth catch on the inside of his cheek, and it takes Sam a full fifteen seconds to realize Lucifer’s slapped him. First time in months, and Sam’s hand crawls up to touch his heated sore cheek, staring shocked, disbelieving, at Lucifer. Lucifer, who swore he’d never lay a finger on Sam again, not like that. Lucifer, who signed the contract and has since then spent all his time either teasing or flirting with or, more recently, ignoring Sam—but never hurting him. 

It’s the violence of the gesture that shocks Sam the most, the harsh and abrupt anger behind the movement. The way Lucifer’s arm swung out so fast Sam didn’t even see, and for ten, twenty seconds they stand there, staring at each other, mouths open. Lucifer’s eyes shadowed and upset and Sam cannot believe he hit him. His chest shattering open and he thinks this is it. It’s over, if Lucifer’s slapped him again. There’s nothing left to lose.

“What the _fuck,_ Lucifer!” Sam yells, feeling his cheek starting to swell a little, hard thick painful sensation under his eye, and then they’re both screaming at each other. Like they haven’t done since Sam can remember, Sam on eye level with Lucifer now. Feeling like wars are being declared in his chest as they fight, like the universe is collapsing around them. Until they’re both backed up against the wall, Lucifer caged in by Sam’s arms. The air sucked out and overheated, their chests shoved up together. Sam’s leg shoved against Lucifer’s, his hands clenched hard against the wood beside Lucifer’s head, and when he takes in a breath, Lucifer does too. Both of them moving in tandem, and Sam drags one of his hands down the side of Lucifer’s face. Winds it into his collar, drags him closer.

“Wanna—” he snarls, low and angry and desperate. “Want— _god,_ Lucifer—” his mouth moving closer, hot and wet and ready, but Lucifer shoves him off. His irises burning with clarion bright lucidity, gaze stuck on Sam’s cheek. Where Sam can feel the skin still hot and tender, a little raised and he knows there’s going to be a bruise by tomorrow morning.

“Lucifer, _please_ —” Sam gasps out, but Lucifer’s fingers are already fumbling at the doorknob, and then he’s stepping out into the main area of the suite.

“I need to go,” he says, and the door slams shut in Sam’s face. 

~

Sam doesn’t sleep again that night. Lies on his mattress instead, staring up at the ceiling, his cheek aching and eyes stinging with his effort to hold back tears. Mouth tingling whenever he remembers how close he came to. To kissing Lucifer, closer than he’s been in a month. His fingers touching the rough stubble on Lucifer’s skin, counterpoint to the soft part of his neck just above the stretch of his collar, and Sam could almost taste Lucifer’s mouth in the seconds before he’d shoved him away. 

He reaches up as the sun paints lines across the walls, touches his bruised face. Wonders why the pull of this wound, low in his stomach, feels the same as the marks Lucifer used to leave on his neck. 

At around eight, after drifting in and out of restless half-dreams for a little while, Sam gives up. Gets up and gets dressed, his fingers fumbling against the buttons of his shirt, and he slips out of his room. Checking covertly around the corners, but Lucifer isn’t in his room, or in the main area of the suite, and Sam slips out the door and down the stairs, taking care to avoid stepping too hard near Lilith or Abaddon’s rooms. 

In the kitchen, there’s a bowl of fresh fruit and a plate with toast and eggs, and Sam doesn’t see Inias anywhere but he assumes the food is for him—no one else is going to be up this early, and Inias doesn’t prepare small meals like this for anyone except Lucifer and Sam, anyway. He grabs a fork and knife and sits, legs hooked around the metal sides of the stool. There’s pepper for the eggs and a little butter for the toast, and Sam eats propped up on one elbow, exhausted and miserable and trying so hard not to think about anything.

He hears footsteps directly ahead of him, coming from the hall that leads to the dining area, and his head jerks up, thinking it’s Lucifer, thinking he’s got some miraculous shot at divine salvation. Whatever went wrong last night, all the things Sam said—they can _fix_ that. Sam can apologize, and they can talk. Work things out, smooth things over. Move on.

Except it isn’t Lucifer coming into the kitchen. It’s a man Sam’s seen only once a month since he’s lived at the brothel, Dr. Heyerdahl from the basement hospital. Does the monthly checkups on the prostitutes, makes sure they’re clean—though Sam’s heard rumors, thinks maybe the kids would be better off not going to him at all—and Sam’s been just for health overviews, but. The man scares him, creeps him out in ways he can’t even explain. Something dangerous and unhinged about him, the loose edges of his jaw and the way he hums when he talks and the near-permanent sneer on his mouth.

“Um,” Sam says, his fingers hovering just over the fruit bowl, getting ready to pluck out an apple slice. 

Alastair pauses at the icebox. Eyes gliding down Sam’s body, looking like he’s trying to dissect Sam, split him open along the seam of his skin, and Sam shivers, draws himself in. Mind drifting to

_(fingers inside shoving him down)_

his nightmare, the closed-off hot helpless feel of it. 

“Good morning, Sam,” Alastair says, his voice a susurrus in the early light of the day, too hissing and harmful for Sam’s tastes. “How are you—hmm, feeling?”

Sam blinks. Sets his apple down and shoves the bowl away, appetite already mostly gone. “I’m—um. I’m okay. I guess.” He swings his legs over the side of the stool and stands, edging back. “I don’t—why are you talking to me?” His heart shoved against his ribs, scared, odd feeling like he’s been here before, and Alastair smirks, says:

“Shouldn’t you be, hmm—in Lucifer’s company? Oh, won’t he just be _furious_ when he sees his prize slut’s gone missing again—”

“What the fuck,” Sam says, shaken and confused, and he moves out of the kitchen with Alastair still chuckling, low dry grass sound echoing in Sam’s ears. Slips through the parlor, all sad and quiet without the gas lamps lit and the chatter of consorts and clients, the clink of china cups, the soft swish of lace against skin. Up the stairs, past the dorms and the suites and he’s nearly at the top when Ruby comes flying out of Lilith’s suite, her eyes wide, mouth pinched. She grabs Sam’s wrist, hauls him into one of the rooms, musty and dark in the daylight. Grips his bones until he can feel them shifting under her fingers, and she says:

“Where the _fuck_ have you been, Sam! I’ve been looking for you for an _hour,_ if Lucifer finds out you were wandering alone he’s going to fucking _kill_ me—”

Sam wrenches his arm from her hand. Glaring heated and annoyed and tired, his bangs falling into his eyes, and he says, “This early, who the hell is even _here,_ Ruby? Honestly.”

“You realize that doesn’t matter, Lucifer’s still gonna be _furious_ —”

 _“Why?”_ Sam asks. Harsh and sick of all of it, that strange distorted feeling still wavering in his chest. “Why is it so important that I’m not alone, Ruby?” Wants to ask why even Alastair, of all people, would have pointed it out, but he has the feeling he’d get a worse punishment if anyone found out he’d been talking to Alastair by himself. 

Ruby clears her throat, staring at the wall behind his head. Doesn’t answer, her mouth pinched and pale, and Sam doesn’t have time for this. He pushes past her as he leaves the room, shoves himself up against the wall and goes the rest of the way to his and Lucifer’s suite. His hands shaking as he shuts the door, heart still beating just this side of too fast from his earlier encounter with Alastair. 

He glances discreetly into Lucifer’s room, making sure it’s empty before he slips into the bathroom. Strips out of his clothes and steps in the shower, turning the hot water on as hard as it will go. Feeling the streams cut and sluice down his back, across his chest. Scalding and searing his skin, and he stands under until it’s nearly unbearable and then turns the temperature down slightly, soaps himself up. Washing off the disgust he can still feel from Alastair’s crawling gaze, the visceral shudder of dislike in his stomach. 

Gradually, his mind turns from Alastair to Lucifer. To last night’s almost-kiss, the way Lucifer had felt pressed up against him like that, hard shifting muscles under his clothes, all tense and angry and restrained. The heat of the water has made him comfortable, and Sam allows his soap-slick hand to slide lower down his stomach, until it rests between his legs. Hesitating before curving it around his cock, thumb brushing the head, and there’s an odd moment where he shudders at the feel of his own hand on himself. Foreign and unfamiliar and intrusive, distinct sick feeling in his stomach and for a second, looking down, he sees

_(slick heavy fingers moving not his own)_

a vision of something

_(someone)_

else. That same taste filling his mouth from the nightmare, that same heavy feeling crawling over his shoulders, and Sam bites his lower lip. Flash of Alastair’s face in his mind, thinking that has to be it, that encounter must be roiling in his stomach, but even to himself it sounds like a lie. 

Sam keeps his hand on his cock, shivering despite the water temperature, waiting for it to subside—which it does, though the feeling lingers clammy and persistent just under the surface. He figures he’s just not used to it anymore; this is the most he’s done in a month—though he’s not sure why. Too stressed out from fighting with Lucifer all the time, maybe. He strokes down slow, hand like a weight, struggling to keep his mind focused. Thinking of where it might have gone if Lucifer hadn’t shoved him off. Remembering the heat and weight of Lucifer in his hand

_(no)_

on his tongue—

He can’t get hard. Nothing, not even after five minutes, stroking until the soap is gone and it starts to hurt, just the friction of skin on skin in the water. Something trembling and uncertain deep inside, and even when he focuses on the pain of his cheek—there’s no reaction. Sam can’t jerk off, he can’t come. 

He switches off the water and stands for a moment dripping wet, flaccid cock hanging between his thighs and a sense of growing dread in his chest. Thinking of Lucifer finding out. Lucifer, who is already so disgusted by him, whatever he did—Lucifer who already refuses to touch him, is already bored with him, and now Sam can’t even—his body betraying him—

Well. He just won’t tell Lucifer. That’s all. Won’t give him a final excuse to have Sam written off and thrown out. Won’t let Lucifer know that he’s become somehow

_(useless)_

unfit for his job. 

His legs catch against the side of the tub as he steps out. Has to reach out for the wall, grasping at slick tile for support, still badly shocked by the whole incident, though he tells himself not to be. Dries himself off with one of Lucifer’s towels, avoiding the mirror and whatever expression is on his face, and he tells himself it’ll be fine. Swallows back a wave of nausea, wrapping the towel tight around his waist, and he clenches his fist, steps out of the bathroom. 

It’s just a fluke, he thinks, in his own room, forcibly pushing back flashing hot images trying to crowd their way to the surface. It’s going to fix itself eventually.


	9. Chapter 9

It gets worse, as the weeks go on. Ruby keeps a tighter hold on Sam, her sharp eyes following his every move even when he knows she’s supposed to be elsewhere. To the point where he’s tempted to ask Lucifer if Ruby’s costing the brothel money by watching him, and wouldn’t they all be better off if she stopped—except that would mean talking to Lucifer about this. Explaining the situation to him, and Sam isn’t ready to do that yet. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to tell Lucifer about any of these latest developments. His inability to get hard, no matter where his mind wanders. This constant bitter taste at the back of his throat, ever since the first nightmare, lingering there no matter how much mouthwash Sam knocks back, or how many times he scrubs at his teeth with mint leaves from the garden. 

The nightmares, more and more frequent, to the point where Sam’s afraid to close his eyes for fear of seeing

_(a man with no face forcing him on his knees tiny cold room hard floors and smell of disinfectant everywhere masked suddenly by the stench of blood and semen black and red behind his eyes)_

the same images, sharp and vivid and terrifying in their realism. Of hearing his own voice screaming itself hoarse, begging and pleading for his faceless stranger to just _stop_ as he’s fucked into, rough and hard and unforgiving. Sobbing and scraped open and when he wakes he’s drenched in cold sweat, fighting back nausea so he won’t wake Lucifer. Twisted up and feeling filthy in his sheets, strong urge to wash them out every day, and the prickling feeling that he’s gone _wrong_ in some irreparable way has lodged itself deep in his chest. Where he can’t reach in and pull it out again, can’t even look in far enough to dissect what it could mean. 

He never sees Azazel anymore, either. Not since that evening in the orchard with Lucifer, and it unnerves him more than it relieves him. Walking restricted as he is around the brothel, Ruby just on his heels, Sam still occasionally runs into people he knows. Regular clients, or the consorts that hate him

_(“You still don’t do shit, but he gives you the best treatment in the house”)_

or his former dancing partners, opening their mouths to ask when he’ll be back onstage and then running off fast at a glare from Ruby. He sees them all, even sees Alastair sometimes—still sneering, staring at him in wicked amusement—but Azazel. Azazel is nowhere to be found, night after night, and Sam wants to ask where he is, but he can’t talk to Lucifer, and Ruby won’t even look at him, so. 

He isn’t stupid. He knows there’s something wrong with him. That whatever problem he’s having isn’t just going to heal on its own. But with all his attention focused inward, trying to keep himself from the 

_(flashbacks)_

visions crowding the back of his mind, Sam notices that he finds less and less opportunity to fight with Lucifer. Avoiding the subject the way he’s doing now, to keep from having to explain to Lucifer all his issues, Sam’s started maintaining a certain level of neutral civility with him again. Finds that when they’re in the same room they mostly just ignore each other, Sam sitting stiff and unhappy in his chair while Lucifer keeps himself from looking in Sam’s direction at all. Sam feeling the weight and strength of Lucifer’s presence near him, aching to reach out and having to curl back in on himself, and he wipes discreetly at his eyes when Lucifer’s gone and tells himself it’s better like this. That at least this way, they aren’t at each other’s throats all the time. 

Which is why, when Lucifer invites Sam to a second gala, Sam barely hesitates before accepting.

It’s similar to the one they’d attended before, the one where Sam passed out drunk, but it isn’t the same atmosphere. No afternoon of picking out outfits, just Lucifer telling Sam the dress code and then leaving him alone to choose his own suit. No gentle teasing in the carriage ride over, Lucifer carding his fingers through Sam’s hair the way he used to, nipping at his neck and asking what scent he was wearing—

_(“Well, you should know,” Sam says, laughing and pushing ineffectually at Lucifer’s hands, “you practically drown me in this every time you’ve got me against a wall.”_

_“Oh, now you’re stealing my cologne?” and Lucifer’s teeth scrape harder at his skin, both of them laughing. The carriage rounding a corner as Lucifer’s tongue sooths over the hurt spot, his rings clinking against the buttons on Sam’s vest.)_

Everything is just stiff, now. Sam pressed against the cool glass window, staring at the slowly darkening sky. The bitter acrid taste thick and cloying in his throat, and he hopes there won’t be champagne there. Nothing to enhance Sam’s abilities to make a fool of himself. To make Lucifer hate him even more.

They pull up to the entrance, Thaddeus letting the engine rumble as first Lucifer and then Sam descends, and Sam can only see this evening as something else he needs to get through.

~

Lucifer keeps Sam tucked neatly against his side. Not quite touching, his fingers hovering in the air around Sam and there’s always a good half-foot of space between them, but even so, Sam can tell what the overall effect is supposed to be. The two of them here among the rich elite of London, Lucifer owning Sam in every sense of the word, possessive and powerful. Sam here only to make Lucifer look good, Lucifer keeping Sam close out of habit, whatever it is that’s got him paranoid back home, and about fifteen minutes into the gala Sam gets sick of this, too.

“Look,” he mutters, low, tucking his mouth near Lucifer’s ear and watching him tense to keep from backing away. “I’m not your fucking trophy, okay. I don’t want you dangling me like you’re showing off for all these people. You hate them, you told me that once, why do you need me here to make you look better?”

Lucifer angles a look at Sam, befuddled and amused in a vague, annoyed sort of way. “You think I’m using you, Sam?”

“I mean—even if it isn’t conscious, yeah, I guess—” Sam fumbles with his sentence, watching Lucifer, watching the barely restrained fury in his eyes. Glad for the distraction of the door opening, burst of wind following whoever’s entered, and Sam turns away fast, trembling. New footsteps echoing along the paneled walls of the building and Sam catches a whiff of slick, rich cologne—

He feels a sharp twinge of pain up his spine. A vicious churning sensation starts up in his stomach and that bitter taste expands in his mouth, crawls along the sides of his throat. So that he’s afraid he’ll vomit in front of all these people, all over Lucifer’s suit and his own. His body going hot and cold all over, in dizzying simultaneity, and something must show in his face because Lucifer’s eyebrows draw together, and he starts:

“Sam—” 

Except then his gaze cuts to just over Sam’s left shoulder. His eyes going dark and narrow, mouth curling in something more malicious than hatred. Sam turns on instinct, the crawling disgust in his bones going sour against the savage revulsion in Lucifer’s expression, and there. There’s Azazel. 

His fingers are wrapped around his wine glass, one he must have plucked from some unsuspecting waiter’s tray, and the shape of his hand curled against the narrow stem prods at something dark and undisclosed in the back of Sam’s mind. Makes him back up a few steps, though they are nowhere near each other. That cologne drifting towards him, curling around

_(mouth on his neck hot and wet)_

some other hazed-over memory. Trying to pull it to the surface, ignoring Sam’s attempts at reigning it in. 

It’s so quiet, now. All chatter ceased, the three of them seemingly the only ones in the room, and Azazel’s eyes cut to Sam and Lucifer as if drawn by an electric current. Something hard and terrifying goes through his gaze, something wanton and hungry and vicious—and then Lucifer is on him. Moving so swift Sam doesn’t even register he’s left his side until he’s got Azazel shoved back against the nearest wall, pinned there, jerking his wrist at a wrong angle to his body. Chest to chest, Lucifer’s forearm shoved against Azazel’s throat, his knee digging hard into his groin. Azazel’s wine glass spilled forgotten from his twisted hand, shattered to the floor, and Lucifer is snarling:

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing here?” 

Azazel smirks. Shifts up a little under Lucifer’s arm, freeing some of his throat, and his eyes cut to Sam again.

“Just came to check on my boy,” he says, lilting and deadly and that bitter taste is so strong now Sam can nearly smell it. “The one you stole from me.”

“He isn’t yours,” Lucifer hisses angrily, shoving his arm in harder at Azazel’s throat. Mouth declaring possession, and Sam knows neither of them is thinking of the contract, right now. “He doesn’t belong to you and you have no _right—”_

“I feel as though, considering my circumstances with young Sam in the past, I have certain rights that surpass anyone else in this room,” Azazel says, still smirking. Looking as self-satisfied as if he’s paid off Sam’s debts himself. As if now he can lay claim to Sam’s skin, to any part of him. 

Sam hears the bones in his wrist snap. Lucifer breaking it with a practiced twist, the other guests murmuring in low rustling noises, starting to move back. The air charged and crackling between them, Sam kind of edging forward without being fully aware. His mind focused too hard on

_(my circumstances with young sam)_

what Azazel said—

And suddenly he remembers. Memories flooding in, triggered by the nightmares and by Azazel’s presence; by his words and by the way Alastair is always smirking at him. Lucifer’s sudden bout of overprotectiveness, ever since—ever since the last—

Sam falls to his knees and vomits, that bitter taste clinging to every molecule in him. Suddenly realizing what it is 

_(azazel coming shooting violent down his throat)_

and he retches and heaves until there’s nothing left inside. Until he’s collapsing in his own sick, sound of Lucifer screaming at Azazel coming to him as if from underwater. Lucifer snarling and threatening and Azazel just lets out harsh pained laughs in response.

“You can break what you want on me, cut my dick off if you like—that boy belongs to me, and I don’t let anything go that I’ve laid a mark on.” 

Sam’s vision swims, pitches. He hears Azazel’s mocking laughter, hears Lucifer saying his name as if from a great distance—and that’s the last thing Sam knows for a long time. 

~

When Sam wakes he’s in his own bed, the sun shining through the window in a soft sort of slanted way, coming in from the west—means he was asleep for a while, almost a whole day. His head feels muzzy and his mouth tastes like shit, his body stiff from lack of movement. Pressed hard into the mattress, fingers curled loose against the duvet.

Sam groans, blinks away sleep. Looks to his right and there’s Lucifer sitting in a chair by his bed, head dropped forward on his chest as he drifts in and out of sleep. Sam shifts, trying to be as quiet as possible, but the second he moves Lucifer wakes. Sits bolt upright and stares, his eyes bloodshot and lined with burning crimson. 

“Sam,” he says, hoarse. Looking right at Sam, like he hasn’t done in. In almost two months. Not since—

It all comes crashing down on him, then. The events of the second gala. What he knows now, what his mind’s been trying to protect him from since the first one. Memory of Azazel from last night, the way he’d looked at Sam, dark heavy lust, and Sam’s insides constrict. Vomit rising up in his throat, and he barely scrambles out of the sheets and into the bathroom in time. Falling to his knees on the tile floor and the taste fills his mouth again, nothing to spit up anymore except bile but he’s shaking, his arms clamped around the toilet. Feeling feverish and clammy and he’s still gagging on that rotten bitter flavor

_(azazel’s come)_

when he hears footsteps behind him. Lucifer’s voice, still just as raw and hoarse as it was in the bedroom:

“Sam—” and he feels Lucifer’s hand between his shoulder blades. Pressing in, keeping him balanced, and he tries. Struggles against the visceral physical revulsion but it’s too much, waves of nausea still overpowering him, and Sam tenses against Lucifer’s hand. Shrinking back from him, spitting into the toilet, closing his eyes. Feeling Lucifer withdraw immediately, and part of Sam wants to ask him to be held. For Lucifer to wipe the sweat off his forehead, to guide him to his feet so Sam can rinse out his mouth. But it’s too much, right now. The sensation of fingers crawling pulling touching over Sam’s skin and Sam feels dirty just thinking about hands on him. Breathing out:

“I’m sorry, Lucifer,” voice ragged and wrenched up from some place deep in his throat, forcing himself to speak past the constriction in his muscles. Forcing the words out, though it’s hard and it feels wrong, and he hears Lucifer move. Shift backwards, and then the sound of footsteps departing, and Sam flushes the toilet and rests his forehead against the cool porcelain for a long time. Breathing in and out and wishing he was

_(dead)_

as far away from here as possible. 

When he goes back to his room Lucifer is sitting on his chair again, staring blank at the wall, his fingers flexing over and over each other in his lap. Sam sits on the edge of his bed, takes a deep breath. Asks, “How long have you known?” though he’s already fully aware of what the answer will be. 

Lucifer is quiet for a long time and Sam feels his skin going tight, fists clenching. “How _long,_ Lucifer?” he repeats, a little louder. Wants to hear him say it, to hear him try and justify the overprotective obsessive behavior, and Lucifer flinches, mouth thinning. 

“Since the night of the first gala,” he says, soft. “When it happened.”

Even knowing that was going to be the response, Sam’s still unsure how to handle it. Less so when Lucifer continues: “I found you on the bathroom floor—”

_(azazel shoving his face against the tile clicking fumbling sound of his belt being loosened)_

“—unconscious—”

_(fingers gripping his hair shoving sam’s knees apart with his own)_

“—I didn’t know what else to do except carry you out, bring you here.”

_(filthy hard voice in his ear whispering claiming possession and then sam is ripped open)_

“—Alastair took care of you in the hospital. You had that fever, and then I. I just didn’t know—when you woke up and you didn’t remember anything, I—”

_(Sam standing at the sink. Splashing cold water on his flushed cheeks, shaking as he scrubs his hands down his face, trying to breathe even. Just a few more minutes in here, trying to calm his racing heart, and then. Then he can go find Lucifer, and they can leave—_

_The door creaks open behind him, but Sam isn’t looking up. Hears heavy footsteps come dragging to a halt behind him, and he smiles, starts, “Couldn’t wait until we got home, could you—”_

_Azazel’s arms are on his waist before he knows what’s happening. Dragging Sam away from the sink and down, gripping him so tight, one hand shoved over Sam’s mouth to muffle his screaming as he wrestles him to the floor. Sam biting at Azazel’s palm and Azazel hitting him against the back of the head, snarling, “You fight, I can fight back twice as hard,” and Sam screams and screams until his throat’s gone raw, but the music playing outside swells, and no one hears him. No one at all.)_

“Since then I’ve been trying to keep you away from Azazel,” Lucifer says, “and him from you; I’ve been kicking him out every night, Sam, but clearly there’s no power on earth that can stop him from seeing you.”

Sam casts his eyes to the ceiling. Biting his lower lip, not knowing how to deal with the fact that it’s been nearly two months and he never remembered. That all this time, he never figured out what was going on, between Ruby’s evasive responses and Alastair’s sudden extended presence upstairs. The way Lucifer’s been avoiding him, keeping him locked up in rooms and away from people, and Sam must be so naïve, so _stupid,_ not to have figured it out on his own—

_(lucifer refusing to touch him because he’s filthy because he’s ruined because azazel touched him first)_

He isn’t aware that he’s crying until Lucifer’s hand is on his cheek, gentle slow movements. The first time Sam’s been touched deliberately in almost two months, and it _hurts,_ the way his body arches in at the same time that he tries to curl away. Shuddering and gasping and he has no idea how he’s supposed to react to this. If he’s wrong for wanting Lucifer’s fingers against his skin. If he’s wrong for not trusting his own instincts in this situation. Remembering

_(every second of azazel touching him until he blacked out his head exploding from the pain the rough angry touch of azazel’s hands on his body “smooth skin sammy you have such smooth skin”)_

the last time, and even though Lucifer’s hands are so much gentler than Azazel’s were. Even with the cool temperature of Lucifer so familiar to Sam, long years of Sam knowing Lucifer and the way his skin feels, how careful he can be. How tender—even then, Sam can’t shake the feeling of dirty bad wrong crawling up his spine, and he clenches his fists in his lap. 

“Sam,” Lucifer starts, very soft.

“I can’t get hard,” Sam blurts, and Lucifer’s hand stills on his cheek. Surprise warring with a poor attempt at neutrality in his face, and Sam already knows Lucifer hates him for this, knows he shouldn’t have told him, but 

_(sam’s hand rough and fast on his cock every night gripping until it hurts gasping and muffling his sobs into his fist but nothing happens nothing ever fucking **happens** )_

he can’t stop thinking about it. Not for one second.

“I can’t jerk off,” Sam says, and he’s shaking now. His tears spilling hot and fresh over Lucifer’s thumb. “Haven’t been able to since—since—” Breaks himself off, voice catching, throat going tight. Turns away, so that Lucifer’s hand slides a little down to his jaw, and he knows this is it for him. That he’s 

_(broken irreparable damaged goods)_

useless here, without his cock. That it’s just a matter of time, now. Before Lucifer stops pretending he wants to be anywhere near Sam, before he discards Sam for someone 

_(cleaner)_

more whole, more fitting. Someone who hasn’t been torn apart. Someone who can still give Lucifer everything he wants. 

Sam doesn’t realize he’s been speaking out loud, babbling out of his head, until he hears Lucifer’s sharp inhale:

“Sam, you don’t really think that?” and Sam nods, miserable and defiant.

“‘s why you’ve been avoiding me, isn’t it,” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral—and Lucifer jerks his hand off Sam’s cheek. Gets up and storms out of the room, mouth set tight, movements jerky, and Sam just. Collapses. Slumps back against the bed until his whole body is reclined against the mattress, and he knows this is it. The contract is going to be torn up and Sam will be thrown from the brothel. Forced to live on the streets, and when Azazel finds out. Propositions him, offering money and a place to stay in exchange for more of Sam’s—services—Sam won’t be able to say no. Won’t be able to reject him, and Sam will become

_(“mine boy do you understand you will always belong to me”)_

another piece of collateral damage. Just another bit on the market, just another way for Lucifer to earn his money. Filthy dirty and Azazel won’t care because he’s the reason Sam’s

_(violated and ruined)_

like this, now. Staring up at the ceiling, trembling and so tense it hurts. Waiting for his hell to come and consume him. Ready to submit himself into this life and when Sam hears the doorknob turn, he flinches, closing his eyes, waiting—

And he feels Lucifer’s hand in his hair. Stroking along his scalp, slow and hesitant, barely touching. Feels him sink down beside Sam, slide his hand under Sam’s shoulders so he can lift him up. Sam curling away from him on automatic even as his mind screams for him to get closer, and when Lucifer murmurs his name, Sam whimpers. Bites his lip again, his eyelids fluttering, but he won’t open them. Won’t look, because he doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want that gentle tone to be counterpoint to whatever expression must be on Lucifer’s face—

Lucifer’s fingers slide under Sam’s jaw. Right up along his pulse, fit there like they were made to, and Sam’s whole body shivers once, low curl furling in his stomach and then vanishing. As though it remembered quite suddenly that feelings like that don’t belong in Sam anymore.

“Sam,” Lucifer says again. So soft it’s barely a whisper, his voice ghosting along Sam’s face, and Sam looks, because he can’t help it. Because he’s drawn to Lucifer instinctively, his body trained and hard-wired to obey Lucifer’s voice, no matter the circumstances. Because he—

_(trusts)_

Sam’s eyes open and Lucifer is there, inches from his face. Eyes so close they’re blurred over, his mouth red and a little open. Hand gentle on Sam’s face, curled just there. Sam swears he can hear Lucifer’s heartbeat. 

“Sam,” Lucifer breathes, pulling Sam in a little closer, and he kisses him.


	10. Chapter 10

Lucifer kisses him slow and careful, holding Sam like he’s delicate. Lips catching on Sam’s, soft, almost tentative. His fingers stroking over Sam’s pulse, mouth warm where he has it pressed against Sam’s, and he’s trembling, just a little. His other hand sliding down from Sam’s back to rest on the mattress, fingers brushing Sam’s knuckles, and Sam. Sam is _kissing_ Lucifer. Sam is kissing _Lucifer._ Sitting on his mattress, tears drying on his cheeks, pressed in close. Gentle and tender like Lucifer’s thought about how to do this for months, like this is all he’ll ever want again. 

Lucifer’s thumb strokes just along the edge of Sam’s jaw. Over the clean smooth stretch of skin alongside the corner of his mouth, until it’s resting just on the fold of Sam’s lower lip. Insistent deliberate pull tug crush and Sam reaches up, touches the back of Lucifer’s wrist

_(couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as you)_

and, shaking, pulls back. Not much, enough to put maybe half an inch of space between them. Both breathing fast, Lucifer’s thumb sliding down Sam’s chin. Leaving a long line of echoing warmth where he’s touched. 

Lucifer murmurs his name, kind of staring at Sam’s mouth.

Sam swallows. His eyes half-shut against Lucifer’s proximity, always so close

_(breathe remember to breathe)_

and his voice is shattered when he says, “You—I don’t. You weren’t—you didn’t—” Reaches up and presses his hand to his mouth, saltwater stinging in his nose. Staring helpless at Lucifer, face framed and distorted through his eyelashes and by the tears clinging there. Throat jerking convulsive and painful when he swallows. 

“I thought you hated me,” Sam whispers, and Lucifer shakes his head, absolute movement. Tugging him closer so Sam can cry against his neck. Tilting Sam’s head up with his fingers tucked under his jaw, murmuring quiet reassurances against his mouth.

~

So now Sam remembers.

He wishes he didn’t.

The nightmares still come every night. No longer just vague flashes of images but whole retellings. Forcing Sam to relive over and over

_(taste of champagne still lingering in his mouth when azazel’s started to fuck him)_

every conscious second of that night. So that he barely sleeps, ends up exhausted more often than not. Clinging to the very edges of his consciousness as he wanders through his world half-awake and terrified. Feeling like half of himself has gone missing, with what Azazel took. With what Sam was foolish enough to _let_ Azazel take.

Lucifer stops ignoring him. Stops treating him like a piece of the furniture, stops dumping him on Ruby every morning, but even so, Sam can barely look at him now. Knows he’s allowed, knows Lucifer was never mad at him or disgusted, but even so. Even so, Sam can’t forget the way he acted. Like a

_(spoiled entitled ungrateful little cunt)_

teenager, like someone Lucifer shouldn’t have to put up with. Whining and complaining and he didn’t even know, shouldn’t have made assumptions. 

One afternoon not too long after Sam finds out the truth, he and Lucifer are sitting in the office together. Lucifer’s filling out paperwork and Sam’s staring out the window, watching a goldfinch hop from branch to branch. Its small crowned head tilted as it searches for rest and food, wings spread a little as it balances itself. Making little tiny chirping noises and Sam aches to have that kind of freedom back. To feel unrestricted, less like he’s becoming a prisoner in his own bones. 

“Sam,” Lucifer says, and Sam jumps. Lost as always in a myriad of illusions and half-formed thoughts, always vaguely centered around

_(cold clinical tile smell of sex in the air)_

Azazel. Distracted and irritating to himself, and Sam breathes out, turns to Lucifer. Watches him try to fold his expression into something neutral, though Sam catches the flash of pain there.

“Do you want to go for a walk with me?” Lucifer asks him. Head tilted like that goldfinch, the gas lamp flickering over his face, and Sam nods, slow. Eyes jerking down to his lap, where his fingers roll over and over themselves. Constant motion he’s not even aware of making.

The brothel is starting to warm up for the evening as they walk out. The halls filling with children and kids Sam’s age, with people like Madison and Ava and Ruby—unoccupied now and smiling for it—and Lilith and Abaddon. Brady, sneering at Sam from where he’s tilted against a door, wearing an all-dark ensemble, black corset and garters and nail polish. Looks like he wants to say something, the way his eyes drop up and down Sam’s body, but Lucifer won’t leave Sam’s side long enough, and they move past. Through the parlor, where Hannah’s lighting the candles and Meg is rearranging the pillows, and then the kitchen, and then—blessedly—outside. 

This early in the afternoon the gardens are mostly quiet. Just wild vines spilling through uncertain cages, butterflies lighting on flowers and taking off again just as quick. The sun shining low and warm on the dirt as they walk, and Lucifer takes Sam to the rose garden for the first time in almost two months. Ducking under the unclipped trees, brushing past ivy and weeds until they pass the entrance, and then he and Sam sit on a bench. The roses facing them, bright and big and open, and Lucifer reaches out, passes his hand over Sam’s.

“You didn’t look like you were feeling well,” Lucifer tells him after a while. The fountain bubbling soft in the background, branches rustling overhead, and Sam isn’t stupid. Knows it’s an opening for him to talk, but he just. He can’t. Not right now. Not with everything so fresh. 

_(waste of your time that’s all just a waste of your fucking time)_

Sam closes his eyes. “‘m okay,” he says. Still feeling Lucifer’s hand rubbing over his, and it makes it worse than he has to focus on remembering who it is that’s touching him. Knows he’s only just started to remember but even so—it’s been two months. Sam shouldn’t. He needs to learn how to deal. Doesn’t need to complain to Lucifer about everything. 

_(lucifer doesn’t need that either does he boy)_

He doesn’t realize how tense he’s holding himself until Lucifer’s fingers vanish. “Sam—” he starts, all concern and caution, and Sam opens his eyes. Staring blinded for a moment into the wide red array of flowers before him, and then he turns. Tucks his head under Lucifer’s chin, mouth pressed against his chest. Listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and Sam knows Lucifer won’t point out that he’s crying. 

It makes him sick, to think that Lucifer is wasting his time with him. With someone as defiled as Sam, who doesn’t deserve to be looked after the way Lucifer is looking after him. Has been looking after him for so long now, and Sam didn’t even know. Holding Lucifer at arms’ length instead of letting him in, and now that Sam understands he can’t—it doesn’t—

They didn’t even get to fuck before it happened, and Sam knows he’ll never be able to forgive himself for that.

He tries not to bother Lucifer at night. During the day Lucifer brings him wherever he goes

_(“Luce, I’m fine here—”_

_“Sam, you’re trembling. Just come to the library with me. I bought a new selection of astronomy textbooks recently.”)_

unless he has business to take care of in the dining hall. Or with a client. Most brothel affairs he takes care of fast, or passes them on to Lilith. Keeps Sam with him the rest of the time, to the point where it starts to feel a little suffocating, but Sam goes. If only to keep that wounded, distraught look off Lucifer’s face, as if he thinks it’s _his_ fault, but Sam can’t stop feeling like a burden. Like Lucifer’s getting increasingly sick of him as the weeks pass, sick of Sam as a physical reminder of all that Lucifer can’t have, now.

There are violent nightmares. Sam thrashing out in his sleep, waking up with screams dying on his lips. The sheets all twisted up in his legs and Lucifer’s already there, every time. His face half-lit in the dark, glass of water in his hand, and Sam stares up at him and wants to just. Curl his fingers in Lucifer’s collar and pull him down. Sit next to him on the bed and talk with his mouth pressed against Lucifer’s shoulder, where his skin is warm and smells of juniper. Wants to lay all his secrets bare, tell about how _dirty_ he feels, how he imagines his sins are visible outside his skin. How walking down the halls here has become something of a chore, wondering if everyone he passes can see the stains on him, running subcutaneous or perhaps bleeding over 

_(on his neck where azazel bit down on his hips where azazel grabbed for purchase)_

into every one of his orifices. How he can’t escape it, no matter how many days pass or how careful Lucifer is with him. Never forcing Sam to do anything, not even to talk, but Sam _can’t._ Can’t give into his weakness, not even when he’s sitting up and trembling on his mattress, drenched in sweat and his stomach churning, the memories still clinging to him like a second skin. Lucifer’s hands hovering over Sam, not daring to touch, and Sam hates that the idea of Lucifer’s fingers on him in the dark makes him shudder with revulsion. 

Daylight comes and goes and Sam can initiate little brushes of their hands together if he hasn’t worked himself into a panic, his chest seizing up and his breath nearly impossible to catch, but it isn’t the same. And Sam curls into himself further with each passing day that things don’t return to normal, thinking that if he severs it first. If he’s the one who makes the clear withdrawal, it might not hurt as much when Lucifer finally has had enough and decides to let him go.

~

There’s a massive function one day. Everyone coming to the brothel, a huge banquet Inias started cooking the previous evening, and Lucifer lets Sam stay upstairs. The door to their suite locked, Sam curled up in his bed with half a dozen novels scattered haphazardly around the sheets, and he lays for a while with his face pressed into the pillow. Barely able to concentrate on his book, mind shifting between Wordsworth and 

_(azazel whispering “never have another after me never”)_

other things. Feeling of fingers ghosting along the back of his neck and he shivers and jumps, tears running hot down his cheeks, and realizes he’s been asleep for a while. The air gone cooler and quieter around him, and Sam slips out of bed, moves downstairs on weak legs. Dizzy and shaken and hoping Lucifer won’t see him out, that Sam can just sort of. Take a breath of fresh air by himself, for a second. Maybe clear his head out and be good for Lucifer when he comes up to their room later. Give him a smile and some real conversation.

He’s not expecting to hear Lucifer’s voice rounding the corner, thought he was preoccupied with the guests, and Sam doesn’t have time to think. Runs on instinct into Lucifer’s office, and then into a small unused closet to the far left of his bookshelves. Where he and Lucifer went once, just once, when Lucifer was putting off signing a contract because he hadn’t had his hands on Sam in four days, and they had to be fast. Hot and frantic and wanting, like two teenagers, and afterwards Sam had collapsed into Lucifer’s arms in the cramped space, shivering and ravenous with desire as he sucked a bruise into Lucifer’s skin. 

He curls up now in the small space, ear pressed to the door, and wonders how the two of them were ever happy enough together to make both their bodies fit.

Lucifer comes into his office a second later, and Sam hears him settling down in his chair. Speaking in low tones to a new client, explaining the rules of the brothel. Listing off the names of his best consorts, paper rustling on the desk, pens scratching out signatures and dates. Sam hears the soft clink of money and thinks of Lucifer’s false smile growing that much wider as he realizes he’s just made more profit off some kid’s spread thighs.

The client leaves, Sam watching through a small crack in the closet door, and Lucifer breathes out. Leans forward for a moment on his elbows, head resting against his palms. The slump of his shoulders heavy and familiar and Sam’s chest aches at how _exhausted_ Lucifer looks. All from taking care of Sam, from having to put up with him for so long now. 

_(“I don’t hate you, Sam,” Lucifer whispers in the dark, his fingers carded in Sam’s hair. Mouth barely brushing Sam’s own, and Sam wishes he could believe him.)_

He’s just reaching over to extinguish the gas lamp at the corner of his desk and leave when there’s another knock. Three steady thumps, and Lucifer groans quiet and impatient into his hands. “Who is it,” he calls. 

The door opens. The room is dark, mostly just grainy shadow lit halfheartedly by the flickering lamp, and Sam can’t see who it is that’s stepping in, not right at first. But Lucifer’s whole body goes stiff. His shoulders thrown back and his spine straight against the chair, and Sam guesses seconds before he sees the familiar profile. The savage cruel eyes and the thin sneering mouth. First time he’s seen Azazel since he remembered, and only his tight grip on the doorframe keeps him from collapsing. His heart beating faster and faster until it threatens to escape from the confines of his chest. Breath coming sharp and short and he has to muffle it into his palm, nearly gagging on the scent of Azazel’s cologne drifting across the room on invisible air currents.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here,” Lucifer snarls.

Azazel walks forward. His hands clasping something at his waist, head tilted as he watches Lucifer. “I’m making a business transaction,” he says. “Same as everyone does here, Luci, or have you forgotten that’s the kind of establishment you run.”

Lucifer’s eyes drop to whatever it is Azazel’s holding, and Sam sees his hand tighten against the edge of his desk. “Get out,” he snarls, but Azazel pushes the chair back, sits down. Swift fluid movement and Sam shifts back on instinct, half expecting to be 

_(grabbed shoved to the floor manipulated rough into uncompromising positions)_

touched, though Azazel’s not even aware of his presence here. 

“I said get _out_ —”

“I’d like to purchase Sam from you,” Azazel interrupts, and it’s like the world collapses under Sam’s feet. 

He’s spent weeks now anticipating Lucifer kicking him out. Having to live on the streets, to go to Azazel because there would be no other choice, but this—Azazel taking Sam _now,_ before Lucifer’s gotten sick of him—Azazel with his money and his greed and Sam knows Lucifer can never say no to a pound or two—

“You—what?” Lucifer breathes. Barely even moving his mouth, voice so quiet Sam has to strain to hear him. His knuckles white against his desk, tremors running in his arm.

Azazel lifts the little package he’s been carrying, drops it on the desk. A little bundle that Lucifer unfolds with quick fingers, and money rolls out. Spills in gold coins and unfolds itself in paper bills, scattered across the table. Ten, twenty thousand pounds. Maybe more. The glint of cash in the lamplight hurts Sam’s eyes, makes them sting, and he has to look away. 

Azazel says, “Oh, come on, Luci, don’t give me that face,” and he says, “It would make sense, you know. For me to buy him from you. Take his debt off your hands. After all—” his chair creaks a little, and Sam forces his eyes back in time to see Azazel leaning forward, pressed almost completely against the desk. 

“You may own his contract, Lucifer,” he says, so soft and silken, “but I’ll always be the one who had him first.”

Lucifer’s fist leaves the desk. Flies forward and crashes into Azazel’s face, slams down on his still-bound wrist. The paper and coins between them rattling and rustling as Lucifer drags Azazel forward, snarling, spitting, his voice raised louder and louder as he hits him again and again:

“Don’t you _dare_ try to take Sam from me. I’ll _kill_ you before I let that happen—you get _out_ of here, get out _get out GET OUT_ —”

The door bursts open and someone tall and broad-shouldered comes rushing in. Grabs Azazel by the arms and drags him out, Azazel laughing wild and wicked the whole time. One of his bodyguards, probably, letting the door slam shut as they go, and Sam feels himself dip and weave against the door. 

~

Lucifer calls Gadreel in. Calm and even tones as he shoves the money across the desk, asking him to dispose of it—

_(“Yes, I want it all burned in the incinerator. None for my children, I don’t want this touching anyone in this brothel—”)_

Once the money is gone Lucifer sort of collapses back into his chair. Hand dragged down his face, staring at the wall opposite. Thinking of the stretched long evening ahead, of having to smile and nod at well-dressed strangers, his only thoughts on Sam the whole time. Sam, who is currently upstairs in their room, buried in a book and no idea that Azazel just tried to _buy_ him, that—

There’s a soft clattering from inside the supply closet behind him. Sound of something breaking, and Lucifer wipes his palms on his trousers and stands, walking over to the door. Tugging on the handle and it opens immediately, and he finds himself staring shocked at Sam. His beautiful boy, heard and seen and been through too much, only sixteen and there are kids here younger than him but for Lucifer only Sam exists, right now. Curled up against the wall, his eyes wide and wet and _terrified._ Shaking all over, shattered glass jar beside him. Looking like he wants to throw up, his face pale, mouth pinched and tight at the corners.

“I’m s—I’m sorry,” he gasps out, voice caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean to, I just. I. I was walking out—needed some—some air, I—” His voice peters out, hair damp with sweat where it’s plastered to his forehead. Tears glittering in his eyes, spilling out over his cheeks, and Lucifer kneels. Follows his first instinct and reaches out with one hand, so slow, aware of the way Sam tracks his fingers as they near his shoulder. Lucifer’s movements careful and deliberate as he closes his hand around Sam’s arm, lets it rest there. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s been able to feel Sam’s skin under his own, warm and soft and Lucifer wants to wrap himself around Sam. Curl them into each other and never let him go. 

“Sam,” Lucifer whispers, his heart in his throat, and Sam makes this awful choked sound. Pressing into the touch for an instant before he’s falling forward, head thunking against Lucifer’s chest. Body wracked with sobs that Lucifer feels echoing inside himself, his emotions tied to Sam’s intrinsically, Sam’s throat jerking as he struggles to hide them. He’s shivering like he’s cold. Soft crunch of broken glass under his feet as he shifts, and Lucifer pulls them both away from the closet. Into the main area of the office, where they can sit on the carpet. Sam burying his face into Lucifer’s chest, whimpering all soft and broken, and Lucifer strokes his hair. Mind on 

_(i’ll always be the one who had him first)_

what Azazel said as he holds Sam against him, and Lucifer thinks, quite suddenly, of how selfish he’s been, keeping Sam trapped here. Where he could get hurt any time, where Azazel could show up and take him any day. Just steal Sam away and drop a bag of money on Lucifer’s desk as compensation, and Lucifer has to swallow down a violent rush of nausea at the idea of _him_ being the reason for Sam’s ruin. The idea of his selfishness sending Sam into oblivion, all because he can’t let Sam out of his sight. 

Holding Sam here in the quiet dark of his office, feeling the fragile shift of bones under skin, Lucifer closes his eyes. Mind on the money burning right now in the incinerator, fingers rubbing slow patterns up Sam’s spine, and his heart clenches painful and regretting in his chest when he realizes what he’ll have to do. What the only option is for Sam’s safety. 

It’s clear, Lucifer thinks, with his arms wrapped loose around his boy, lips pressed feather-light into his hair, that Sam will have to leave.


	11. Chapter 11

“Is he okay?” Sam asks Ruby, a week later. When he’s forced to spend the afternoon with her because Lucifer has something to take care of in London—

_(“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Lucifer says. All tense and worried and Sam reaches out, touches the back of his wrist. Finds that ever since the incident in Lucifer’s office, he’s been able to stand skin on skin contact more and more often, if in increments and only for a little while._

_“It’s okay, Luce,” he says. Wants to ask if he can go with, but he knows better. Has known better, for a good while now, than to ask if he can leave the brothel. “I’m okay.”_

_Lucifer nods once. There’s a sharp line between his eyebrows, mouth set and unhappy and Sam aches to smooth it with his thumb. Wishes he could find out the source of that deep sadness in Lucifer’s eyes—though he supposes it’s just Lucifer thinking of Azazel, and all he’s done to try and ruin them._

_He flips his hand over and for a second their fingers are touching—and then Lucifer turns, sharp jerk of his head at Thaddeus, and the two of them disappear out the front door.)_

Ruby shrugs. Trying to look nonchalant, though indifference has never suited her. “Don’t know why you’re asking me—”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Arms folded across his chest, trying for that impatient, cold look Lucifer gets sometimes, and she lets out an exasperated groan, hand in her hair. 

“Christ, you and him—” Pauses, looks away for a moment, her lower lip sucked in between her teeth, and then “He’s worried about Azazel,” she says. “He isn’t letting up on having you; keeps coming in every night, or nearly, no matter how many times Lucifer gets him kicked out—”

_(i think you’ll find i’m persistent when i want to be)_

Sam shivers, just a little. “He already had me,” he says, angry and to the floor. “He doesn’t need to keep trying to get me again.” 

But it’s a stupid thing to say, and they both know it. Both know once Azazel—or any other client here—gets the taste for flesh, he’s not going to let up until he’s had all of it. Sucked Sam dry, so to speak. 

“What’s going to London gonna do for all this, then,” Sam asks, after a little while. 

Ruby shakes her head. “I don’t know,” and then, “I swear, I don’t!” with Sam glaring at her, annoyed and a little scared, because the last time Ruby said she didn’t know anything, Sam wound up unearthing repressed memories from a cold bathroom floor. “Maybe he’s just—trying to find something he can use to get Azazel banned,” she says, and Sam sighs. Nods, and heads up to his room, Ruby a reluctant shadow on his heels.

Sam doesn’t want to worry. Knows Lucifer has a lot on his mind, but even so. Ever since that night in his office, with Azazel, Lucifer’s been acting—strange. Spending an increasing amount of time either away from the brothel or so thick in its throes that Sam’s forced to stay away. Feeling—not quite like Lucifer’s hiding something from him, but definitely like something’s wrong. There are tight lines around his eyes, nudged into the corners of his mouth. Something heavy and dark glossing his irises, and whenever Sam is able to hold Lucifer’s hand, when the panic isn’t coming on too hard—Lucifer twines their fingers together. Grips him tight—or as tight as he thinks Sam will let him, anyway—and closes his eyes. Breathing slow and heavy and Sam wants to ask what’s wrong. Aches because Lucifer is hurting, wants to touch and kiss and hold, but he knows he isn’t going to get an answer.

Anyway, he can hardly ask Lucifer to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering him without looking like a hypocrite. He still can’t open up about his flashbacks, not all the way. Even after dampening Lucifer’s shirt with his tears. The way he’d clutched at him in the office, shaking in the dark, Azazel’s words

_(i’d like to purchase sam from you)_

still echoing fresh in his mind. Both of them kneeling on the carpet until Lucifer was almost late to the function downstairs, his thumbs gentle when he’d wiped Sam’s tears from his cheeks and sent him back up to the suite—even after that, Sam still can’t. His nightmares as frequent and vivid as ever but there’s no point in bothering Lucifer. No point in letting him know, and all Sam is able to do is stand under the shower night after night. Scrubbing at his skin, the water scalding hot, wishing he could wash away the stain he feels curled between his legs. Wishing he could scrape off this damaged outer shell, and just start all over. 

A few days later, Lucifer goes back to London. It’s a Sunday, not much business until the late evening, once all the Masses have let out, and Lucifer tells Sam if he stays in their suite he should be fine. Running his fingers through the soft crush of Sam’s hair where it rests against the back of his neck, and Sam can feel his hand vibrating. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, mostly against his better judgment, and Lucifer nods, once. Too fast, his smile looking thin and strained.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells him. Hesitates for a moment at the door, handle white knuckled in his fist, and Sam thinks he’s going to say something else—but he leaves instead, shoulders one long tense line under his coat. 

A few hours later, Sam takes one of his astronomy books and goes out to the section of the courtyard sequestered off for Lucifer alone. Near the rose garden, where Sam feels safe and protected even without Lucifer physically present. Doesn’t tell Ruby but he’s sure she won’t care, with the brothel as quiet as it is this time of day. His mind set mostly on finding a bench he can curl up on. Legs jackknifed under him, the book resting against his thighs, and he’s not really watching his surroundings as he picks his way through low-hanging vines and scattered fallen leaves. Birds fluttering above him in some distress, disturbed by his movements. Smell of overripe peaches drifting towards him from the orchard, and he’s distracted, just started to sit when he hears—

“Sam, it’s been _far_ too long, sweetheart, have you missed me?” Feels a hand enclose around his wrist, twisting his arm up behind him and his book thuds to the ground, crashing in among the dead leaves and overlong grass. His whole chest seizing up, throat closing. Panic slicing its cold frantic way through his body and he can’t tell if his first instinct is to try and run or if he wants to kill Azazel, but he’s frozen in place, Azazel’s grip constricting

_(“You like being held down, boy?” Azazel hisses, and when Sam shakes his head, mouth pressed tight so he won’t vomit, Azazel tightens his grip on his hair. Forcing his head down, and he snarls:_

_“You will when I’m finished.”)_

around his wrist. Holding onto Sam with his good arm, using the other hand to slide up the front of Sam’s shirt. The sun beating sleepy warm rays down on them, not especially hot weather but Sam is drenched in sweat. His heartrate skyrocketing as Azazel’s fingers dig clumsy and painful into his flesh. The bones still healing over from where Lucifer hurt him but he’s wrenching Sam’s arm back harder with every attempt at getting away Sam makes. Thumb grazing over one of his nipples, smirking against the back of his neck when he finds it hard, and Sam feels vomit rise up the back of his throat. Has to swallow to keep it down, clenching his teeth and moaning low, his body’s reactions the worst betrayal. 

“You still want me, don’t you,” Azazel whispers, and Sam shudders, bitter taste in his mouth. Azazel jerks Sam’s wrist a little higher, his mouth hot and wet against Sam’s neck and Sam doesn’t know what to do. Dizzy with terror, he whimpers and twists, trying to get enough leverage to kick backwards and run, but Azazel’s hands are solid weights. 

“Yes, that’s right, my good boy,” he murmurs. “Struggle, you know how I _love_ that.”

From behind them comes the vicious heavy crunch of leaves under someone walking deliberate and fast, and Sam wrenches his wrist again just as Lucifer shows up. Slams the barrel of a gun into the back of Azazel’s head and he goes down hard, and only Lucifer dropping the gun and grabbing Sam’s arm keeps Azazel from taking him down too. 

Lucifer turns him around. Slow, careful, despite the way he’s holding Sam’s arm, as though he thinks Sam might try to run if he lets go. Panic like bright fire in his eyes but it bleeds away the longer they stand there. Replaced by a cautious relief, and his grip on Sam relaxes. Thumb stroking slow over Sam’s bicep, both of them trembling. Sam breathing hard, his eyes burning as he hitches his breath, tries not to cry. Lucifer’s mouth working, moving over Sam’s name like a prayer. Calming him down by just existing near him, his presence strong and quiet and always good to Sam, _always—_

But then Lucifer takes a deep breath. Draws himself up, mouth set tight, and that familiar strange expression crawls back into his eyes. The one that he’s been wearing for days now, and he says, “Come with me.”

Sam glances down at Azazel’s prostrate form. “Where—”

“I have someone I need you to meet,” Lucifer says. His hand still wrapped loose around Sam’s arm, sort of guiding him back towards the brothel, but there’s an odd tone in his voice. Ripped up and unhappy, and Sam lets Lucifer get him as far as the gate leading into the courtyard and then stops. Uneasy feeling crawling up his ribs, blossoming out in his heart. 

He says, “Who—” and Lucifer says:

“It’s a client, Sam. A buyer from a different company.”

Sam’s sure he’s heard him wrong. “You mean as in—” he starts, and Lucifer’s mouth goes tight.

“I mean I’m sending you off,” he says. Casual, as if he’s had a lifetime to get used to the idea of Sam gone, Sam displaced and uprooted all over again. His words not making any sense as Sam stands there, staring at him in the warm sunlight. Lucifer, who just saved his life—again—who’s been keeping Sam safe and protected. Lucifer, shipping Sam off—but it can’t be right. 

He says, “‘s not funny, Luce—” but Lucifer isn’t laughing, and Sam feels something drop off in his chest as if from a very high cliff. Falling and tumbling and broken down into the pit of his stomach, congealing and solidifying, all fear and anger coalescing into a single unidentifiable lump. 

He hears choked, hysterical laughter, doesn’t realize it’s him until he feels his throat ripped up. The tears hot on his face and he says, his voice shaking with false calm:

“So you just. You just decided you were gonna make this decision for me, yeah? This fucking _monumental_ decision and you just go and sign me off to someone else without even _telling_ me about it?” Words rising in pitch, carrying across the gardens. The birds upset and rustling again, but he doesn’t care. All of his worst fears suddenly slamming into him all at once, Lucifer’s finally sick of him, sending him off, and Sam thought he could handle it. Thought he was prepared, but “Without even asking me what the fuck I want!” he screams, his fists clenched at his sides. “If I would be _comfortable_ with something like that!”

“It would keep you safe, Sam—”

_“You_ keep me safe!”

“Oh, right, clearly,” Lucifer scoffs, and that’s _enough—_

“I want to stay here with you,” Sam says. Aware that his voice is cracking, that he’s whining, but he doesn’t _care._ Lucifer shipping him off because he thinks Sam would be safer away—never even considering for a second what _Sam_ might want, how desperately Sam _needs_ Lucifer. Lucifer, who makes him feel safe. Keeps him tucked close and away and Sam knows he can’t function without him. This burning sensation starting up in the center of his chest, acid eating a hole through his ribs, at the idea of being apart from Lucifer. 

_(a few months ago you would’ve jumped at this opportunity)_

Lucifer’s eyes are steel. “I still own your contract,” he says. “So you’ll do what I say and you’ll leave—”

“You never wrote anything about fucking _abandoning_ me,” Sam snarls. His whole body overheated and furious and he’s staring at Lucifer’s mouth, twisted and angry but Sam doesn’t know how to not want him. He lunges forward, grips Lucifer’s collar, and there’s a second’s pause before he’s slamming their mouths together, jarring for a second before he resituates himself. Gripping Lucifer’s jaw, gasping into his mouth:

“If you fucking pull away, Lucifer, I swear,” and he’s not sure if it’s the raw need in his voice or the way he’s biting and pulling at Lucifer’s lower lip that convinces him to grip Sam at the back of his shirt and hold on like he’s drowning.

They stand there kissing for Sam doesn’t know how long. Hours it feels like, or years. Sam feeling like he’s dying from the overload of touch, sensations coming at him from all angles. Rough stubble under his palm scratching his skin, Lucifer’s hands fisted into his shirt. His touch strangely gentle for such a savage kiss, tiny little hitched sounds coming from his throat. Sam echoing him, whimpering and moaning and he’s desperate to _feel_ this, to imprint it on his mind. Heat stirring low in his groin, first time in weeks and Sam grips harder, kisses deeper—

Which is right about when he hears someone clearing their throat behind him. He jerks away from Lucifer, his heart threatening to crawl out of his throat, fearing for one badly startled moment that Azazel’s woken up. He spins around and there’s a man standing in the doorway leading out from the kitchen—thick brown hair and eyes a shade darker than Lucifer’s, and a sad haunted hollow look on his face. 

“Is this him?” he asks, sounding hoarse, run down, and Sam turns back in time to see Lucifer nodding:

“Thank you for agreeing to take him,” he says. All this painful relief in his eyes, the lines creasing his face fading out. Tension bleeding from his shoulders and there’s no apology in his expression, nothing to signify that he doesn’t want this. “I just. I couldn’t—” 

“Don’t,” the stranger says, this man who has agreed to wrench Sam away from everything he knows.

“So this is what you’ve been going off to London for,” Sam spits. Caustic and bitter and Lucifer won’t even look at him, mouth trembling, still swollen and red and spit slick from their kiss. 

The stranger’s eyes trip up the path to Sam and Lucifer at the courtyard gate, and then beyond. Land on Azazel’s unconscious form sprawled out in the lilies, and he starts, “Is that—” 

Lucifer levels a cold look at the stranger, and he falls silent, looks at Sam.

“Are you ready to leave?”

“No,” Sam snaps, speaking to the man but glaring at Lucifer. “No, I wasn’t informed of this until about five minutes ago—”

“I’ve had Hannah take care of your things,” Lucifer interrupts, voice as cold as his eyes, though Sam sees that old sorrow attempting to break its way through to the surface. Wishes he didn’t know its source, after all. “They’re packed and waiting in the foyer. I want you to—” 

“I’m not going _anywhere,_ Lucifer—” 

Azazel stirs behind them. Sam had half-forgotten he was there, caught up in the panic and anguish of Lucifer’s betrayal, and his chest seizes with sharp terror. 

“He _will not leave you alone,_ don’t you _understand_ that?” Lucifer hisses. “You _foolish_ boy, he will chase you down for the rest of your _life_ unless you leave me.”

Logically, Sam knows Lucifer is right. But he’s still only sixteen, though he forgets it most of the time—a teenager, young and broken and he hates authoritarian tones on principle. Especially when they’re coming from Lucifer, who doesn’t treat him like this anymore. Hasn’t for months now. Lucifer, who had his tongue in Sam’s mouth so recently Sam can still taste him in the crevices of his teeth. He’s furious and he’s scared and hurt and all he hears is that Lucifer is shoving him away because this is too much for him. Because Lucifer’s gotten sick of him, finally, and there are newer and younger models to fuck into out there. Ones that aren’t tainted and rent and 

_(damaged goods)_

useless. 

Sam takes a step backwards. His mouth working, hands clenching at his sides. “Fine,” he spits, won’t look at Lucifer now, either. “Fucking _fine,_ Lucifer,” and then, to the stranger: “Can we fucking _go,_ if we’re gonna?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he storms into the house. He’s shaking and his stomach is roiling, whole world pitched on end but god, he’s not going to cry. He _won’t._

The dark-haired man stays out in the courtyard for a little while, speaking to Lucifer in low tones. Azazel stirs again, Sam can see him through the glass, and Lucifer steps backwards, enough so he can put one booted foot on his windpipe, ready to crush it at the first sign of trouble. After a few minutes the stranger nods, and turns, and then Lucifer looks at Sam for a moment. Just looks, with all the desire and want and need in his eyes that Sam can feel reflected in his own, and then he’s turning away, facing Azazel, ready to take him on when he’s fully awake. 

The dark-haired man comes to Sam. “Are you ready?” he asks again, and Sam wants to snap something back, something snarky and Lucifer-esque. But his throat is dry and his eyes are burning, and he knows if he opens his mouth right now he’ll start crying. Weakness shown in front of this man he doesn’t even know, terrifying concept, and he just settles on nodding. Back straight, spine steel, and he allows himself to be led from the brothel. 

~

It’s quiet, afterwards. 

Lucifer gets Azazel off the premises, still mostly unconscious and muttering to himself. Stands for a moment in the courtyard after, his hand over his mouth, tasting bile in his throat. Thinking if he turns around, Sam will be there, still. Trying to fool himself into thinking that all this is just a dream, that he didn’t really just send Sam away. That it wasn’t necessary for his survival. 

That maybe Sam will forgive him. 

When the sun has dipped below the trees, branching out reluctant final light on the land, Lucifer goes back in. Ignoring Ruby and Meg, he slaps the schedule for tonight on Lilith’s bed

_(“You’re in charge tonight. Don’t fuck it up.”_

_“What, again, Luci? What’s going on—”_

_“None of your business,” and he slams her door so she won’t see him falling apart.)_

before heading up to his and Sam’s

_(not anymore remember sam’s gone sam’s gone sam’s gone)_

suite. Pausing for a second at his own door before heading inside Sam’s room, instead, and he stands at the foot of the bed, looking down. His hand wrapped around the post, solid mahogany. Burnished and waxed, and Lucifer spent thousands of pounds on this bed. Thousands of notes without even blinking, because he wanted Sam to be comfortable. Everything, always, to ensure Sam’s comfort—

_(Sam curled up under the thick sheets. His hair damp against his forehead and his skin flushed, faint pleased smile curving the corners of his mouth as he settles down. Half-asleep and not bothering to pull away when Lucifer’s hand finds its way onto his forehead. The air still thick with sweat and sex and Lucifer hadn’t expected Sam’s dick to feel as good as it did against his hand—_

_Sam with the pillow tucked under his head. His eyes on the stars outside the window, voice soft and curious in the still night as he asks question after question—_

_Sam with his fingers playing over Lucifer’s as they sit together. The taste of Sam still vivid in Lucifer’s mouth, but all he can focus on is the delicate arch of Sam’s cheekbones in the gas lamp. The way he stares up shy and half-smiling, eyes hidden from under his bangs and Lucifer can’t believe the swell in his chest, even after all this time—_

_Sam feverish and sprawled out. Wincing and gasping in pain, whimpering when Lucifer’s fingers graze his skin, twisting away from the cold cloth—_

_Sam struggling out of the sheets night after night. Screaming and not fully awake and Lucifer can hardly stand to see that terrified expression in his eyes when he comes running into Sam’s room, glass of water in his shaking hand though he knows it won’t do much—_

_Sam wondering out loud what’s wrong with him, wrapped up in the same sheets that have cradled his body for months now. Lucifer unable to tell him, shame and cowardice keeping his eyes on the floor, Sam’s fear and anger radiating off him—_

_Sam staring glaze-eyed and desperate out the window. Every inch of remembrance evident on his face, in his eyes, and all Lucifer can do is sit helpless, his hands flexing on the sheets—_

_Sam slowly letting his fingers crawl up Lucifer’s wrist, their first touch in weeks—_

_Sam’s shy smile peeking out like the dawn—_

_Sam laughing, soft, at some stupid thing Lucifer says. Asking if the next time Lucifer’s in London, Sam can go too—)_

He leans his forehead against his arm. Closes his eyes. And lets the tears come.


	12. Chapter 12

They’re ten minutes into the drive—steam-powered carriage, just like the one Thaddeus drives, and Sam wants to hate it but he can’t bring himself to care about anything, right now—when the man speaks.

“My name is Michael,” he says, and, “I own a modeling corporation in Leeds.”

Sam snorts, derisive little sound scuffed up under his breath. So Lucifer’s shipping him off with soft, weak things. People who have no idea what pain feels like. What it means to be alone in your own skin, to scream and scream until your throat is raw and bleeding.

“My models service the photographers, occasionally,” Michael says, and Sam’s chest kind of clenches up. His fingers drumming an automatic nervous rhythm against his thigh, mouth going dry 

_(i can’t i’m sorry it’s just not possible i can’t i can’t i can’t—)_

as he imagines himself draped in front of some flash camera. The poof going off in his face, bright and hot and the smoke would screen him from being able to see the photographer moving forward, unbuttoning his cufflinks—

Sam shudders, and the betrayal slices further. Even deeper cut into his chest, and his head is buzzing so loud he barely hears Michael still speaking, until he says, “Your contract is different, you know.”

Sam shakes his head. Hard. Glances over at Michael, his throat working, and has to tilt his head because he can’t force the word _what?_ from his lips.

“Lucifer set it up with me in London,” Michael explains. Voice soft and almost apologetic, and Sam flinches at the pity he hears there. Disgusted, mouth curled into a sneer. Doesn’t need whatever it is Michael thinks he’s offering, but “You aren’t required to have sex with my clients,” he explains, and Sam can’t help the collapse of relief in his chest. “Lucifer ensured that no one at my establishment will ever touch you.” 

_Did he tell you why?_ Sam wants to ask. His jaw gritted tight, feels like it’s been welded shut. His gaze shifting swift from Michael to the front of the carriage again, afraid of what he might do if he keeps looking over, full of all this brand new hatred. _Did he tell you how I’ve been fucked up, damaged beyond repair? That he’s transferring me to you because he no longer has any use for me?_

_Did he tell you how he lied?_

Out loud, Sam says nothing, and Michael sighs. Very quiet and mostly into his fist, but Sam still hears. Wonders if he should start playing a new game, seeing how long it takes before Michael gets sick of him, too. His arrogance and his stubborn attitude that Lucifer probably “forgot” to warn him about, and Michael will get rid of him, too. 

Sam wonders if it’ll take Michael less time, since he won’t be pretending like he actually cares. 

Ten more minutes of silence, stretched out and hard between them, before Michael says, “Someone you know stays at my corporation.”

Sam narrows his eyes, tilts his head, questioning and suspicious. He only knows people at Lucifer’s brothel.

Michael draws in a breath. Looks even sadder than he did when he first came onto the courtyard. 

“Your brother, Dean,” he tells him. 

Dean—

_(howling screaming sam’s name as they’re dragged apart dean all he’s had for four years taking care of him when john was too drunk but dean’s gone now and sam has to steel himself off from the rest of the world)_

He’s thought about his brother, on and off, since they were separated. Six years now since he’s seen him, and Sam remembers he loved Dean, once. Remembers they were close, Dean protecting Sam when they’d lived out in the city, the three of them all alone—but Sam doesn’t know Dean. Not anymore. And Dean certainly doesn’t know Sam. 

_If that’s your big enticement to try and get me to be excited about living at your place, then you fucked up,_ Sam thinks. His mind circling around Dean, around Lucifer. His skin itching, familiar subcutaneous filthy feeling running permanent through him, incurable poison in his veins, and he doesn’t want Dean to see him like this. Six years gone and he doesn’t need his brother seeing him violated, ruined. Doesn’t need Dean—or any of the models—seeing him as the product of rape and rejection.

Michael’s hands tense against his thighs, mouth going thin the way Lucifer’s does when he’s impatient, and he doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride.

~

It’s a two hour drive from London to Leeds. Two hours for Sam to sit staring out the window, fighting hard to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks. Trying not to think of Lucifer

_(if he doesn’t want me then hell if i’ll keep thinking about him)_

so of course, naturally, Lucifer is all that’s on his mind. The anguish in his expression when they were looking at each other from across the kitchen. The tremors running through his muscles when he’d first knocked Azazel out in the courtyard, taking Sam up in his arms. Holding him like something fragile, like. As if Lucifer—

The carriage slowing down presses through his train of thought. Sam’s been staring unfocused out the window, watching trees and long stretches of field sail by, but now. Now they’re on gravel, passing through iron gates. Cement columns on either side of the entrance, and Sam snorts again. Thinking of Lucifer’s lavish excessiveness, the golden gates at his brothel, symbolizing that each client is entering Heaven. Cement far too cheap for the outside, where Lucifer has marble pillars to hold his gates up. Michael’s mansion is large; more so than Lucifer’s, though Sam isn’t especially impressed by its dull exterior. More graying cement, three floors with long-paneled windows and massive French doors leading inside. 

But Sam has to admit—the grounds here are spectacular. Sprawling in all directions, dipping and weaving. Soft pale grass waving in a light breeze, dotted with weeds and heather. A wood behind the brothel, curving around the land and disappearing around beyond where Sam can see. Trees dotting the field here and there, birch and pine and oak and 

_(peach)_

other kinds. 

Sam’s mind flits to Lucifer’s orchard, and he glares down at his shaking hands fast so he won’t cry. 

Michael glances over at him as the carriage rolls through the gates and starts up towards the house itself. “You like nature,” he murmurs. Not quite a question, and Sam twitches one shoulder, shrugging. 

“Lucifer told me,” Michael says, casual. As if this one statement is going to make up for everything. “He said you enjoy the outdoors, and wanted me to mention that all this land belongs to me—”

Sam snorts. His breath catching hard in his throat and he knows he’s not going to make it much longer but he’s furious again, feeling a little sick. Doesn’t know what the hell Lucifer was _thinking._ Did he assume that fields and trees would just make Sam forget his home? So Michael has a few acres, and that’s just gonna magically make it okay that Lucifer isn’t here? That he got _rid_ of him—like he thinks Sam’s not gonna _care—_

The tears slip, without his permission. Roll down his cheeks, drip off his jaw, and honestly Sam’s getting tired of the whole ordeal. Biting his wrist so he won’t make any noise, staring through blurred eyes at the grass and the flowers, and Michael sits beside him. Quiet and unobtrusive, and Sam is grudgingly grateful for that, at least. 

Then the carriage comes to a halt outside the doors, and Michael gets out. Pays his driver and beckons to Sam, who has no choice but to slide out. His cheeks sticky with saltwater, staring up at the mansion before him, and loathing grips him tight in the chest and twists him down in its grasp. 

“This is your home now, Sam,” Michael tells him, and Sam glares. His eyes hot and burning and he opens his mouth to tell Michael no, this isn’t his home, his home is two hours away and it isn’t the brothel—

But then the doors open. Revealing a tall, dark blond man with sharp verdant eyes. His skin pale and freckled around his bare arms, on his shoulders where his tunic has slid low enough, face pretty enough to be a whore at Lucifer’s, and Sam wonders why this one wasn’t snatched up before him—

He stops at the foot of the stairs. His eyes fixed on Sam, mouth open slightly, and he glances once at Michael, his eyebrows raised. A question on his face that Sam can’t read, but Michael must give him a satisfactory answer because he rushes forward. Stops only when he’s nearly reached Sam, his hands twitching at his sides, and he says:

“Hey, Sammy,” kinda rough low voice. “Long time no see, huh?”

Then his arms are wrapping around Sam, careful enough that Sam thinks he might know the truth. Squeezing Sam in, resting his chin on his shoulder, and Sam can feel his heart thudding quick through their shirts.

_Dean,_ he realizes, and slowly, slowly, brings his arms up and around, hugging his brother back. 

~ 

For the first two weeks that Sam lives at Michael’s he stays in his room. Sits and stares out the window, feeling absent from himself, something carved out hollow and dead in his chest. He misses Lucifer, visceral dull ache in the center of his chest, the feeling immediate and slashed through him no matter how hard he tries to push it down. Even the damaged parts of himself from Azazel’s rape are deadened compared to the fierce knife ache he feels when he thinks of Lucifer’s eyes. The shape of his rough hands. The feel of his mouth against Sam’s, pliant and willing and so surprisingly soft. Those little wanton pained noises he made when Sam was kissing him, like he physically could not get enough.

Sam grabs at his cock in the pitch dark of his new room and jerks it roughly, until his skin feels hot and flayed open, until he’s in pain from the raw rubbing and chafing of dry skin on skin, but there’s nothing. All he can see in his mind is Azazel bending him over the sinks, all he can hear is the harsh whisper of his voice

_(stay down for me sweetheart yes that’s right my little fucktoy oh how i’ve waited for this)_

and Sam grabs his cock and jerks and pulls and squeezes until he’s crying but he’s just ruined, he’s just another piece of useless meat now, waiting to be carved up and thrown out.

There’s a dull pain deep inside him where he can’t reach with any salve to sooth it, something that has felt intrinsically damaged from the moment he first remembered at the gala. Something Alastair did not fix and would not have fixed if he had the instruments for it. It’s the part of Sam that feels slick with blood even when he’s checked for red spots fifty times. The part of him that feels a phantom ache in his ass, the skin around his hole rubbed raw and swollen though he hasn’t been fucked since Azazel took him. The part of him that wants to scream, to wrench the headboard loose from the wall and throw it into the fire because he’s so _helpless_ now, so _broken_ and there’s nothing he can do to make it okay.

Night time, sometimes, when Sam can sleep, he dreams in restless shifts of Lucifer’s cold hands covering him, soothing that sharp ache deep within him. Replacing it with light and heat and something soothing like rainfall, but the minute Sam starts to relax, the minute he reaches for Lucifer his face changes, morphs into Azazel’s, laughing and mocking above him. Those yellow eyes glinting down from some shapeless dark and never moving from his face as he pummels into Sam, hard and rough without any prep, no lube to ease the transition from empty to full. 

Sam wakes up sweating and trembling so badly his entire bed is shaking, but he never screams. He can’t. There’s been something blocking his vocal cords since he got in the carriage with Michael. Since the moment he felt his jaw seal itself off, his throat collapsing inward. Grief stitching it shut, sealing it with wax and mortar. He can swallow just fine

_(know if i was fucking your mouth you’d swallow for me wouldn’t you like a good little slut)_

but he hasn’t made one sound since he got here. 

It would scare him except that it doesn’t, and honestly, he doesn’t have much to say to the people here anyway. They leave him alone. Afraid of him, almost, as if they think what happened to him is some disease they can catch by lingering around him for too long. The only time Sam sees anyone is when Michael has food sent up, or when Dean stops by. Standing hesitant in the doorway, his eyebrows furrowed as he searches for something to say. 

“You, uh,” he starts, at some point during the second week. Sam not looking at him, staring blank out the window. Noticing the sunshine and the bird that’s lit on his windowsill without really seeing any of it, Dean’s voice coming to him as if through a long tunnel. “You look good, Sammy.”

Sam’s whole body jerks involuntarily. There’s dirt staining his blood and poison spread out over his skin and Dean wants him to think he looks ‘good’. 

“I mean. You look—older,” Dean tries, lamely.

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course he looks older. It’s been six years. _This whole reunited siblings thing sucks,_ he wants to say. Opens his mouth to try, and the words get clogged up. Choking him, so that he starts to cough. Just little weak things into the crook of his arm, nothing he can’t handle but Dean freaks out as if Sam’s got pneumonia. Rushes forward

_(too fast moving too fast)_

and puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders. Solid heavy weight and pressure against Sam’s body

_(pressing into him from behind sam can’t turn around in time can’t move away too weak too slow)_

and he’s saying, “Sam, you okay?” but Sam’s already jumping up. Shoving Dean out of the way, running across the hall to the private bathroom he has access to. Gripping the sides of the toilet as he heaves, skin burning with the remembered touch of Dean’s fingers. Stays in there for hours, his chest and stomach clenching up, until long after night has fallen, and after that, Dean doesn’t try to approach him again. 

The third week, Sam goes downstairs to the main room, only because he’s hungry and the room he stays in is starting to make him feel sick, its four identical beige walls and cream-colored carpet too monotonous for him. For Sam who is used to the lavish decorations of Lucifer’s brothel, the maroons and burgundies of the downstairs parlor and the soft pastel colors of the middle rooms, the bright emeralds and sapphires in his and Lucifer’s suite and the rich violets and crimsons of Ruby’s and Meg’s. Even Lilith’s sheer white suite, softened only by a few contrasting tones smeared into the sheets or the carpet such as soft blue or pale gray, is a blessing in comparison to what Sam has been given at Michael’s, so—downstairs it is. 

Dean’s there, leaning against the icebox, munching on an apple, and he tilts his whole body up as Sam enters, a fluid leonine graceful movement of muscle and bone. “Hey,” he says, offering a tentative half-smile. “I was wondering if you were ever gonna come down.”

Sam shrugs. Tilts his head at the icebox, and Dean shuffles out of the way. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he says. “Michael probably doesn’t feed you enough, huh?” His grin softens at the edges, little crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes, and Sam wonders if Dean knows what he looks like when he talks about the owner of this establishment. “Guess he doesn’t remember what it’s like, feeding a sixteen year old.”

So Dean was here when he was sixteen. Fourteen when he was taken, and Sam wonders if he was here the whole time. Something itchy crawls up his spine, a prickling sensation of doubt and unease, and it must register on his face because Dean says:

“He took care of me, you know. It wasn’t like. I wasn’t abused, here. I haven’t ever done anything I didn’t want to. Not for him, not for any of the. Uh. The patrons.” He swallows, Sam hears the click of his throat. “And I mean. You won’t have to, either, when you’re ready—” He leans in, puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam jerks away. Plastic tub of carrots he’d grabbed falling from his hands and spilling across the kitchen floor, bright orange lines slashed into the linoleum tiles. 

He’s not aware of how hard he’s breathing, of how his shaking has started up again, until Dean takes a step back, staring at him wide-eyed and worried. “Sam—” he starts, and Sam glares at him, nostrils flared, head lowered, charged up for a fight. _Fuckin’ touch me again,_ he says with his eyes. _I fucking dare you._

Dean draws in a breath. Exhales slow, looks away. There’s a new tone to his voice when he says, “I didn’t talk for a month when I first got here, you know,” kinda soft and resigned, like this is something he doesn’t allow himself to think about because it’s too painful. Still too raw and fresh inside him, after all these years. 

“I missed you,” Dean says. “Even kinda missed Dad. I didn’t wanna be here, Sam—I just wanted to know you were okay, and no one would talk about you, so I shut down. Tried running away a few times—” he pauses, scoffs. “Didn’t get too far before Michael had me sent back, told me there was way worse out there and I was—that I was lucky to be here.”

He swallows. Far off distant look in his eyes. “Still wouldn’t talk to anyone for the longest time, not even Michael, but Sam.” His fingers are digging hard into the counter at his back, his voice gone desperate under the thin veneer of calm he’s attempting to slide over it. “Sam, it gets better. I swear to you, it isn’t gonna be like this forever. You’re gonna learn how to like it here—you’re gonna forget Lucifer and whatever the hell it is he let happen to you—” 

Sam launches himself forward. Slams Dean against the wall to his right, pins him there with built muscles and tight fingers

_(“I told you to put more **power** behind those hits, Sam. This isn’t going to hurt me. You can be as tough as you want.”_

_“You’re just trying to train me into some kinda freakish super soldier prostitute, aren’t you?” But Sam is smiling, sweating and breathing hard as he faces Lucifer across the mat, his body taut and thrumming with energy._

_Lucifer snorts, dry and amused and Sam knows he’s not going to get hit. Not this time. “You caught me,” he says, flat sarcastic voice, and Sam laughs. Reaches out with his hand and Lucifer catches it immediately, presses it behind his back._

_“You’re telegraphing intent,” Lucifer tells him, quiet, so close. Slides his hand up Sam’s arm, over his bicep. “You need to work on that.” He squeezes Sam’s muscle, once, and Sam feels a hard shiver wrack his whole body._

_“Keep going to the gym,” Lucifer tells him, before stepping away. “It suits you,” and Sam tells himself he’s flushing because of the exertion, but he’s still smiling when he lands an uppercut on Lucifer’s jaw.)_

and levels his gaze hard on his brother’s. _You shut the fuck up,_ he snarls without words. Communicating with his teeth bared, animalistic and furious. _It wasn’t him. It wasn’t even close to him._ Can tell he’s getting his point across when Dean starts struggling, wincing under Sam’s grip. 

“Okay,” he says, “okay. I’m—I’m sorry, yeah? It’s just.” He sighs, cuts his eyes away from Sam. “Michael told me—after last week, he told me to give you space. Because of. Because of what happened to you—before.” His muscles are tense under Sam’s grip, his mouth thin. “I won’t say anything else, Sam. You can let go.”

Sam steps away from him, knows his boundaries, but he won’t stop glaring. Not even when Michael comes in, eyes dropping curiously to the carrots on the floor:

“Is everything all right?” he asks them, and Sam flips Dean off once before shoulder-checking Michael on his way out, shaking with how fucking _unfair_ it all is. 

He cries without sound on his bed that night until he falls asleep. Dreams of strong arms wrapped around his waist and a cool mouth pressed into his hair, and wakes up aching and desperate and as soft as ever between his legs. 

~

_(Two hours from Sam, Lucifer jerks awake. His heart slamming in his chest, sweat gathering in his hairline, and half-awake he staggers out of bed. Shivering and exhausted and wandering into the bathroom, fumbling for a minute before he finds what he’s looking for. Fills the glass with water and carries it to Sam’s room, his eyes stinging with interrupted sleep. Mouth dry and he knocks soft on Sam’s door, calls:_

_“Sam—I have water—”_

_There’s no answer, and the panic that floods Lucifer wakes him all the way. Shards of reality shot into his mind and he nearly spills the water down his front as he remembers the truth. That Sam is gone. Sam is not here. He sent Sam away._

_His fingers close around the doorknob, push inward. The door swings open and Lucifer is faced with a dark empty moonlit space. Sam’s bed neatly made, his wardrobe empty. His books gone from their shelves, and Lucifer whispers, “Sam isn’t coming back,” and sinks slow and numb to the floor.)_

~

Sam’s been at Michael’s for a while, long enough to learn some names, a few faces that don’t stare at him like he’s some sort of virus, spreading infectious and uncontrollable through the building. Michael has a younger brother, Raphael, who helps out, and there’s all the models: Ion, who bears a vague resemblance to Inias; Anna, pretty and young and transparently in love with Dean, who ignores her except to be polite. Rachel, who fucks mostly older clients; and Alfie, the youngest, younger even than Sam, as much a twink as the twelve year old 

_(slaves)_

whores back at Lucifer’s, but different somehow. Fresh-faced and innocent in a way that none of Lucifer’s children will ever be.

They’re all like that at Michael’s, actually. _Young._ Naïve. New and curious and bright-eyed like fucking faceless strangers is the highlight of their days. _It should be a breath of fresh air,_ Michael says, _after the horrors you must have seen at Lucifer’s place. You can learn very quickly here this practice isn’t all bad._

It just makes Sam’s stomach roil. These kids—and he can’t stop referring to them as _children_ in his mind, though he’s younger than most of them—don’t know what it’s like. To be held down against the tile of some bathroom floor face shoved into the cold plaster as your pants are ripped off brutally. Thick rough hand on the back of your neck and hard voice whispering in your ear to shut the fuck up or you’ll die. Legs shoved apart and _pain,_ so brutal and blistering, nothing Sam would ever wish on anyone but he wishes these kids had to go through it too, if only so they wouldn’t be so _soft._ It’s not going to make life any easier for them later, not when they’re fucking some businessman who decides he’s more into drawing blood than pursuing pleasure on both ends and they don’t know how to deal with the repercussions afterwards. He thinks thoughts like that should shock him, but they don’t. Not anymore. Haven’t now, he realizes, for a long time. 

Sam never realized how hardened he’d become until Lucifer dumped him here with no explanation on how to survive in a world where everyone isn’t out to put a price on your cock. 

~

“What exactly happened to you?” Dean asks, one afternoon when he and Sam are sitting outside. Fresh smell of earth in Sam’s nose, and he’s playing a private game where he sees how long he can go without thinking about Lucifer. 

Made it nearly two minutes, this time. 

He glances over at Dean. Eyebrows lifted, and Dean sighs, glancing out over at the woods. “I just meant. Because Michael never elaborated. He just said something went on at Lucifer’s and I just. I wanted to ask. In case you wanted to talk about it. Or anything.”

_What happened to you?_ his voice echoes in Sam’s head. Where he spends most of his time now, no need for any real effort expended towards the outside world if Sam can no longer communicate with anyone, and he finds his thoughts turning— 

_(It’s late, and Sam knows he should be asleep, but Lucifer hasn’t left his room. He’s sitting still and quiet on the edge of Sam’s mattress, his fingers curled around Sam’s knuckles. Staring down at the floor, face shadowed, and Sam reaches out with his free hand. Lightly brushes his fingers against Lucifer’s cheek, and Lucifer turns, startled._

_“Hey,” Sam murmurs. Quiet. Hesitant. “You okay?”_

_Lucifer smiles, nothing amused in it. Shakes his head and stares at the wall, rueful twist to his mouth. “I should be asking you that,” he says, more to himself than to Sam, and Sam sits up straighter. Moves in closer, not by a lot, but enough. Enough to feel Lucifer’s body heat, to smell the cologne he wears. Soft and earthy and nothing like. Like—_

_“You just look—sad,” Sam says, derailing his train of thought fast because he’s enjoying this. Just the two of them sitting on his bed, closer than they have been in a while. Sam’s not having panic attacks or flashbacks or anything, he feels safe and warm and sleepy and he doesn’t want it to end._

_“I’m just tired, I suppose,” Lucifer says. His fingers playing over Sam’s knuckles, gentle slow touches, and Sam watches for a while as their hands move together. The play of skin on skin in the dark, and he wants to kiss the crescent of Lucifer’s thumb and forefinger, right where they meld into each other. Wants to press it against his mouth and close his eyes._

_Doesn’t realize he’s drifting off until Lucifer gently nudges him away from his shoulder. Sam blinking fully awake again, yawning and surprised, and Lucifer’s eyes are soft as he looks at him. Soft and tender and there’s something restrained in his expression. That sadness creeping in along the edges, though he’s trying to hold it back, and Sam wants to ask again what’s wrong but he’s tired, and when Lucifer lays him back. Light touch to his shoulder so that he goes against the pillow, and Lucifer stands and tucks the sheets around him, Sam does not object._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam,” Lucifer whispers, his fingers carding light through Sam’s hair. “I have to leave for London in the morning, but I’ll wake you before I go.”_

_“Okay,” Sam mumbles into his pillow, and, “‘night, Luce,” and he’s asleep before he can hear the way Lucifer’s breath catches.)_

“Sam?” Dean says, cautious, and Sam jerks. The sun is warm on his forearms, where only seconds ago he had cool fingers pressed, head tipped subconscious into the solid weight of Lucifer’s hand.

He reaches down. Picks up the slate Michael had given him to write on, since he isn’t talking, and scrawls out a quick sentence for his brother, temporary satiation of what he knows isn’t just his fevered curiosity but that of the entire modeling company:

_Someone abandoned me,_ he writes, and he won’t look at him again.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Two months._ **

They’re all in line to get photographed. Crowded up in the hall leading from the foyer to the parlor, and Sam’s just trying to edge past, so he can get out before any of Michael’s clients notice him, when he hears his name being called. Unfamiliar female voice, and when he turns he sees a blonde girl beckoning him from a little ways down the line. Her hair in long waves, cascading down her shoulders and just hiding the cleavage pushed out of her corset. Wearing lilac eyeshadow and light pink garters and she’s older, maybe Madison or Ruby’s age. Pretty and smiling and Sam steels himself, walks forward. 

“I heard about where you used to live,” she says, when he’s close enough. Her voice quiet and confidential, as if it’s some kind of secret that Sam’s new here. 

_Yeah?_ he writes on his tablet. The smell of her perfume overwhelming him and he has to take a step back, but she doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Surprised you made it out alive,” she says, and a couple of the other girls around her nod in agreement.

_Why?_ Sam asks. More to be polite than because he actually cares. Mind on his bed upstairs, the way the soft duvet will crush under his weight. Dull colorless walls lulling him into a stupor, the sun shining low and green-tinted through his window, because of the branches that hang just outside—

“Well, you lived at Lucifer’s, right?” she asks, and when Sam nods, fingers tightening around his pen, ready to defend Lucifer against whatever ridiculous assumptions these girls have, she says, “Michael’s brother’s place has the _worst_ reputation.”

For a second the full sentence doesn’t register. Just Sam’s cold amusement at the way she shudders over the words _Lucifer’s place._ The fact that it has a bad reputation to these people, these models who show up of their own free will for a little extra cash. Who drape themselves over soft cushions and wrap their bodies in silk curtains. Stand for hours and hours before a camera, or in front of an artist equipped with brush and paints and easel. Their features immortalized on canvas or on film, and then they only get fucked a few times a month by these young attractive men and women who know what they’re doing; know how to be gentle. Feeling a little superior, thinking of Lilith and Abaddon and the way they’d systematically tear her down, tear all these so-called “courtesans” down—

But then. Then his mind flashes back to her words

_(Michael’s brother’s place)_

and his hand is shaking so hard it cramps a little when he asks, _Lucifer is Michael’s brother?_

She glances at her companions. “He was the last time I checked,” she says. Sounding a little confused, and Sam doesn’t know why this news is upsetting him so much. Why he should care whether Lucifer and Michael are related at all, except.

Except this is just one more thing Lucifer’s hidden from him. Just one more thing Lucifer didn’t tell him, because he was too busy figuring out the easiest way to get Sam off his hands.

He nods at the girls and ducks fast down the hall. Up the stairs and into his room, collapsing on his bed, and ticks another mark off the list of things Lucifer’s lied to him about. 

~

**_Three months._ **

Michael’s office is situated on the third floor. Same as the sex rooms, and it’s because of that that Sam finds himself lingering outside Michael’s shut door one lazy afternoon. The sun shining through the great paneled windows on either end of the hall, the air getting colder as fall comes on, and Sam is jackknifed with his back against the wall, knees to his chest. Waiting to see if Michael comes out of his office before Dean’s done down the hall with the countess from France, the one that wears furs and likes the models to kiss her rings before they take her upstairs. Because there’s sort of an unspoken agreement between Michael and Dean that when Dean’s servicing clients Michael isn’t really supposed to know about it. As if they’re trying to avoid reality by pretending Dean can be monogamous in a place like this.

Sam doesn’t understand why Michael doesn’t just buy Dean himself, keep him as his exclusive whore the way Sam belonged to Lucifer, but. That isn’t the way it’s run here, and without anything better to do Sam finds himself and his sign language guide 

_(surprise gift from dean presented with a hesitant smile at sam’s door one sunday morning and since then sam’s been teaching himself how to speak all over again)_

sitting in the hall. Trying to concentrate on how to construct basic sentences, but Michael’s on the phone in his office. Talking loud, almost angry, and Sam’s working on blocking his voice out when he hears his own name. Sharp vicious tone, and suddenly Sam finds himself pressed all the way up against the door. Book forgotten at his feet as he strains to listen:

“Yes—I understand that—but he’s been here _three months,_ and he still won’t fuck—”

Long pause. Michael breathing kinda hard, like he’s angry, and Sam doesn’t know what to do with this conversation. Of course he isn’t having sex, didn’t Lucifer tell Michael—

“—he’s so _quiet._ I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak one word, not since he got here—spends most of his time outside—I suppose he likes it, yes, but he isn’t—”

Sam stops listening for a minute, then. Sort of slips backwards, brief loss of contact with the door and his heart is in his throat, his mind an angry swirl of panic for the first time in a while. Adrenaline riding hard in his veins and he has to get out of here, he has to go, because Michael’s going to sell him too—Michael got sick of him just like Sam predicted he would and now he’s going to be shipped off somewhere else and forced to fuck someone with thick hands thick hair punishing grip as he’s pounded into—

“You send me enough money,” Michael says. Loud enough for Sam to hear him even through his panic. Even though he’s slipped from the door a little ways, shaking and breathing hard on the hallway floor. “That isn’t the—no, that’s not why I’m complaining—” He lets out a snarling, frustrated breath. “Next time you send me one of your whores, Lucifer—make sure he’s able to _work,_ would you?” And then he slams the phone down. Receiver ringing in its cradle, sound of a fist hitting wood, but Sam can barely hear any of it. The panic, the adrenaline—ripped out of his system, all at once. Replaced by a numb cold, seeping under his skin, into his bones. Digging its way into his heart, and Sam is vaguely aware of pain lancing in his chest. Of his fingers digging into the soft carpet under his palm, but just barely. His throat dry, mind spitting out

_(useless fucking whore damaged little slut you knew the whole time he wasn’t going to want you anymore once you were gone)_

savage angry words, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to deny any of them. 

Because Lucifer’s calling. He’s sending money—and Sam can’t help wondering what’ll happen when it runs out. When Lucifer gets sick of supporting such a lost cause, turns his attention to younger and more willing flesh—and Sam can’t even imagine how he’ll have to repay Michael for the expenses. The amount of photographs he’ll have to pose for. The number of men he’ll have to spread his legs for, to make up for all this time he’s spent 

_(useless)_

alone in his room. 

Lucifer’s doing all that—but he won’t talk to Sam. 

He draws in a shuddery breath, and finds that he’s too hollow to cry. 

~

The first night Lucifer tries writing to Sam, he’s drunk. Bottle of whiskey perched precarious on the desk beside him, the pen trembling in his hand. Parchment laid out flat and crisp in front of him, and he looks down at it and finds he can’t think of a single goddamn thing to say. 

_Sam, I hope this letter finds you well—_

_Sam, you have to understand, I didn’t have a choice—_

_Sam, Michael’s was the only place I could think of to—_

_Sam, I lo—_

That last one, scrapped. Viciously scratched out with long angry scratches of the pen, ink sliding across the page. His hands clenched tight and he drinks straight from the bottle, feels it burn as it slides down his throat. Sam doesn’t need to hear that, right now. Sam won’t _want_ to hear that.

He’s shivering and angry at his own weakness, just drunk enough to feel selfish with wanting Sam back, and he throws the scratched-up paper into the fire and storms downstairs. Grabs the first whore he finds, long angular face and pretty dark hair, and fucks into him with the door barely shut. Pressing his face into a thin pale shoulder and going dizzy when he comes.

He tries again a few more times, after that. Always with a nearly full bottle of whiskey in his stomach. Sometimes still coming off the high of sex, but more often than not he’s holed up in his room. Or in his office, the drapes shut, door locked. Mouth trembling and he pictures Sam over at Michael’s. Sitting in one of the impersonal upstairs rooms—oh, yes, Lucifer’s been, he knows how drab it is there; but then, Michael was always a dull choice of proprietor compared to him—with his forehead pressed to the glass. His eyes shut, and he’s probably not thinking of Lucifer at all, anymore. 

_Sam, I’m so sorry—_

_Sam, I know you won’t believe me, but you’re better off away—_

_Are they treating you better there, Sam? They don’t put you in danger, like I did—_

Once, he has Thaddeus ready the carriage. Bring it around to the front door and wait while he buttons his vest and adjusts the lines of his waistcoat. The train station is only half an hour from the brothel, and if Lucifer buys a ticket straightaway he might make it to see Sam in time for dinner—

But if he goes, what then? It’s hurt like hell, right from the beginning, to be separated from Sam, and Lucifer knows the second he sees him he won’t be able to leave him again. Won’t be able to resist offering Sam the chance to come home, and he knows Sam will say yes. Sam will want to come back, and Lucifer. Lucifer can’t let him.

He tells Thaddeus he’s changed his mind. Goes back inside, heads up to Lilith’s suite. Where there’s wine and white silk and lilies, Lilith waiting for him laughing, covered in pearls and lace, and Lucifer knows he won’t think about Sam at all.

~

**_Six months._ **

Sam’s thought about running away a few times. Contemplates the notion more often here than he ever did back home, even when he was twelve and terrified and always so angry at everyone. Tries to picture himself out free in England. Buying a train ticket and going to the coastline. Setting sail for America on one of those metallic steam-powered ships, stowed away careful and hidden in the boxes and baggage below. Sam, in New York City, staring up at glittering buildings and the weird people he’s heard of that live there, half-human and half-robot—

But he can’t. His need for freedom, for escape, completely overridden by fear. Seeing Azazel, for one, because god knows where he might be now. If he’s lurking in wait at every port, at every train station. And greater than that, even—his fear of never seeing Lucifer again.

Because if he left, he wouldn’t. Lucifer wouldn’t know how to get in contact with him. Wouldn’t know where he was. Just in case. In case.

Sam knows Lucifer’s the one who sent him away. That Lucifer’s the one who cut ties with Sam and said never again, because Sam needs his safety more than he needs Lucifer

_(bullshit fucking bullshit lucifer is safety should’ve told him should have made him understand)_

but he can’t help hoping. Can’t help thinking maybe one day Lucifer will break down and come to get him. That this visceral ache in Sam’s chest, something vital torn out of his center, is the same thing Lucifer feels. That one day the pain will be too much, and Lucifer will come and see Sam—and when he does, Sam needs to be _here._ Ready and waiting and longing for home. 

~

**_Ten months._**

He thinks the members of Lucifer’s brothel would be mocking him, if they knew. If they could see him now, nearly ten months after he arrived at Michael’s, stretched out on his bed. Staring up at the ceiling and breathing shallow through his nose as his hand moves carefully and well-slicked up with lube inside the waistband of his shorts. He’s a little hard right now, eyes screwed shut so tight it hurts, biting almost clean through his lower lip and trying so hard to keep his mind steady on one thing

_(Lucifer pressed up against him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. His skin cold as ice but the heat still comes off his body in waves, nearly drowning Sam in its intensity._

_“Hold it like this,” he tells Sam, adjusting his fingers around the trigger of the gun, fitting his thumb over the safety. “There aren’t any bullets in the chamber, but if there were you would push on this—”_

_Sam flips the safety off, spins in Lucifer’s loose grip. So that he’s got the barrel pressed to Lucifer’s chest, mouth slightly open. Hand shaking, and he swears he can feel Lucifer’s heartbeat through the gun._

_“There’s no bullets in here?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow, and Lucifer shakes his head, slow. Watching Sam carefully, so carefully, waiting for something Sam can’t figure out._

_Sam pulls the trigger, and—_

_**click.** _

_Lucifer smiles at him, soft and without malice, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Takes the gun back, thumbs the safety on again, and tucks it into the back of his trousers. Never takes his eyes off Sam’s, not even once. So much heat crackling between them it feels like static lightning in the air._

_“Bang,” Lucifer whispers, before turning and walking away.)_

but he can’t get the feel of Lucifer’s body pressed against his, the way the metal of the gun had felt in his hand, how for a moment he’d been the one holding the power. Not when other memories

_(shoved against the ground hands and knees scraped and bleeding ass sore and ripped open something vital torn out by long claws and merciless fingers)_

keep crowding up, pushing Lucifer out.

Ten months since Sam left Lucifer’s brothel. Ten months since he last spoke. Over a year since Azazel raped him. And Sam still can’t get over it. 

Yes, they’d mock him if they knew the truth. How pathetic he is. How small and insubstantial. 

Sam digs his nails into his cock until it goes soft again—doesn’t take much time, at that, but he scrapes it raw anyway—and pretends he doesn’t feel the hot slide of tears on his cheeks as he rolls over, stares out the window. At the moon which is shining bright tonight, raw white light streaming in through the glass over Sam’s body and he wonders if Lucifer is looking too. If he’s thinking of Sam, if he still feels the same visceral ache in his chest now, or if he’s moved on. If he has another boy, one that can actually service him—

Sam pulls his hand out of his shorts and it comes away slick with lube and spotted crimson with blood. He bites into his fist and cries himself to sleep.

_Fucking pathetic._

~

**_One year._**

“Sam,” Michael says, “could you run upstairs and get me my checkbook?”

He’s conducting a business transaction in the foyer. Some artist client, clothes stained with paint and oil, wants to buy not only the painting but the subject as well, and they don’t do it like that very often here but the artist has offered a substantial amount. 

_(“He’ll sell us off willingly enough when the price is good,” Dean had explained, low annoyed tone, when they’d all first heard about it, and Sam had marveled silently at how similar Michael and Lucifer were, at their cores.)_

Sam nods once, heads upstairs. Passes the girl of choice on the second floor, where most of them sleep, and she’s packing with her friends. Laughing, talking about how much better it’s going to be with Basil, outside this establishment, and Sam sort of wants to wring her neck. Ask her how _stupid_ could she be, to believe that she’ll have a better life owned and fucked every night, no choice in the matter, as opposed to what she has here. To believe that she’s somehow _unlucky_ here, where she could’ve left _months_ ago, of her own volition. 

But he can’t, because he doesn’t speak, and they won’t learn his language in turn. Still afraid of him, and their naivety disgusts him, too. So he just walks on, up the next flight of stairs and into Michael’s office. The checkbook is sitting on his desk, fountain pen crooked beside it, and Sam’s just about to lift it up when his eyes light on something else. Folded down off-white parchment, half-tucked under Michael’s transactions ledger, and Sam wouldn’t touch it at all except that he can see his name. Familiar slanted script, handwriting he hasn’t laid eyes on in 

_(a year it’s been a fucking year and he isn’t even writing to you)_

so long. Deep emerald ink, because Lucifer’s never been satisfied with just black, and Sam forgets the checkbook entirely, tugs the letter out. Unfolds its creases and reads:

_Michael—_

_How is he? It was a year today and I couldn’t stop thinking about him and I need to know how he’s doing. Sam. Oh, it looks nice to write that. Sam. Sam. Sam—_

_Is it still enough money? I can send more if you_

—and then the words just. Stop. Trail off the page in a wobbly sort of line, splotched and thin and unhappy. The handwriting shaky and uncertain, and Sam knows Lucifer was drunk when he wrote this. That he’s probably drunk right now as Sam’s reading it. 

The creases of the paper are stained, little wet spots that have long dried over but Sam can tell they were tears, once. Runs his thumb over them, over the ink. The letters that Lucifer’s hand composed. The one-year anniversary of the day Lucifer shipped him off to this hellhole and he was thinking of Sam. Probably with his head propped up on his hand, staring out the window of his office at the maple that grows on the front lawn. Or maybe he was sitting in the rose garden when he wrote it, watching the bushes blooming in the slow coming summer heat—or maybe in the orchard, sitting under a peach tree, ripe fruit tucked against his cheek as he scrawled—

He’s running before he knows what he’s doing. Back downstairs into his bedroom. Opens a bag on the floor and he throws the first clothes he sees inside: loose fitting tunic that might have been Dean’s at some point. Tight leather trousers, joke gift from Gabriel. Pinstriped tie and soft cotton leggings, and Sam doesn’t let himself think about the books in his closet. The ones he won’t have time to pack because he can already hear footsteps coming up the stairs—Michael wondering where he is with the checkbook, probably. There’s a small bundle of cash stuffed into the inner lining of the bag, Sam thinks Dean might have slipped it there and if this was some other more opportune time he would go thank him but as it is all he can do is slip out his window. Lever himself down the trellis, swift and quiet on thin fingers and lean arms. He collapses in the rose bushes and crawls through the dirt, away from the house until he’s reached the road. Hails the first steam-powered car he sees, clambers into the backseat:

_Take me to the train station, please,_ he begs, scrawling so hastily his handwriting is hardly legible, but the driver nods. Wheels turn under Sam’s feet and the smaller Michael’s mansion gets in the rear window the closer he comes to crying.

Finally, he’s going home.


	14. Chapter 14

Michael’s mansion is only fifteen minutes from the Leeds railway station, but it feels like hours longer before Sam is able to press some money into the driver’s hand, get out of the carriage. He’s trembling when he pushes a sheet of paper over the counter in the sprawling train station: _one ticket to London, thank you,_ half-expects some kind of dirty look for not speaking but the ticket lady just punches one out for him, takes his pound note and tells him to have a good trip. 

There’s a wooden green bench off to one side, and Sam sits on it, bouncing his leg up and down, hands clenched tight in front of him. So that he crinkles the ticket, dampens it with his sweat. He keeps swallowing convulsively, mind on the tablet in his bag. He had to leave his sign language book at Michael’s when he ran and he has no idea how he’s going to talk to people once he gets back to Lucifer’s— 

Oh god, he doesn’t even know if Lucifer is going to _want_ him back— 

By the time the train comes Sam has thrown up twice in the men’s room. His legs feel like rubber, barely supporting him as he hands his drenched ticket to the conductor. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck and he can’t get enough air. No way of knowing if Lucifer will be happy to see him or not and his hands are twitching compulsively in his lap. Never even occurred to him that unless he can figure out how to make his voice work again he’ll have to write things down for the rest of his life, no way he can teach without that book—

Sam presses his forehead against the cool warped glass of the train window and exhales shakily, willing himself not to cry. There’s already been enough of that for one afternoon, and the last thing he wants is to show up at Lucifer’s brothel looking as 

_(broken)_

pathetic as he really is. 

The train lurches forward and Sam closes his eyes. Breathes out. Mantra running on constant in his head: _it’s going to be fine it’s going to be fine it’s going to be just fucking fine._

~

By the time they arrive in London it’s later in the evening, and there aren’t as many people in the station. Stars are coming out as Sam watches, waiting for a steam-powered carriage to come and get him where he needs to be, soft white points of light glittering against the velvet blue of the sky. 

_(“How can you tell which ones are planets and which ones are stars?”_

_“Planets are stationary.”_

_“They all look stationary to me, Lucifer.”_

_“Don’t snark at me,” but he’s smiling, isn’t even trying to hide it, and then he takes Sam’s hand, drags his finger across the glass until it’s touching a soft round shape to the west. “See that one?” he asks, and Sam nods. “That’s Jupiter. It’s bigger than the other dots around it, and it’s. It’s smoother. Do you see?”_

_There’s something strangely hopeful in Lucifer’s voice when he talks about space. Something aching and almost lonely, a desperation for Sam to **understand** , to know what he knows, and Sam nods, slow. Studying Jupiter’s form, and yes, it does look rounder than the others. More purposeful._

_The air around it is slightly smudged, too, and when Sam points this out Lucifer actually **smiles** , open and unfettered, such a rare occurrence. “Galileo’s moons,” he explains. “I can tell you their names too, if you like.”_

_“No one wants to fuck a nerd,” Sam says, but he’s teasing, bumping his elbow against Lucifer’s, and when Lucifer ignores him, starts:_

_“Ganymede, the largest,” Sam just curls against him, head on his shoulder, and listens.)_

_______A taxi pulls up, forcing Sam away from his thoughts. He climbs in, hands over his money—well, Dean’s money, really—and an address scrawled on a scrap of paper. Leans back against the seat as the carriage lurches forward, closes his eyes. Lets the sounds and smells and sights of London close in around him, and falls asleep with the road expanding familiar and welcoming under his feet._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______~_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Sir.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Sam shifts, head jerking a little._ _ _ _ _ _ _

“ _Sir.”_ More insistent, and with reluctance Sam cracks one eye open—and then both, very fast, because here they are. 

_______The taxi driver looks nervous. “Sir, you don’t want me to. Um. Do I have to pull in all the way to the gate, or—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Sam shakes his head, reaching under his seat for his bag and wrenching the door handle until it opens. He’s shaking badly again, staring at Lucifer’s brothel for the first time in twelve months. It’s too dark to tell if anything’s changed but Sam wouldn’t care much if it had._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______The driver leaves, gravel crunching under tires, and Sam starts forward, clutching his bag. Practicing in his mind what he’ll do if Lucifer asks him a question immediately. Heart in his throat the closer he gets to the doors, and by the time he’s knocking, his whole body is shivering constantly, attacked from the inside by some virus._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He’s half-hoping Lucifer himself will answer, but it’s Thaddeus instead. Looking appropriately surprised to see Sam, blinking in the half-light coming from the hallway. Door partially shut and just muffling the sounds of laughter coming from within. Soft tinkling sounds of human interaction, coquettish giggles from Meg—Sam swears it’s her, and he never thought he’d feel happy to be near her, but here he is—and a low, intoxicating laugh that can only belong to Abaddon._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Come in,” Thaddeus says, after a long, stunned moment, and Sam slips back inside the mansion. The air seems almost to close in around his shoulders as he steps over the threshold, welcoming him home, and he exhales softly. Wishes he could talk, make this tattered mess of his throat work. As it is all he can do is set his bag down and pull out his tablet and pen, write:_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_I can’t speak out loud anymore. Will you tell Lucifer I’m here?_

Thaddeus goes pale. Drawn, almost, and Sam frowns at him—did everyone go soft while he was away? _What?_ he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Thaddeus shakes his head, taking a step back. 

_______“I’m not going to tell him you’re back,” he whispers. “He’ll be so furious; either he’ll think I’m lying, or worse still, he’ll believe me, and then he’ll be angry with you for returning—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Well, I don’t care,_ Sam snaps. _I want to see him._

_______“Thaddeus,” calls a languid, familiar voice from near the top of the stairs. “What in the hell are you doing down there, I told you to bring us up some tea—” and Sam feels a jolt in his chest. First at Lucifer’s voice, the way it still resonates in him, crawls up his spine—and then at his words. Slammed with the sudden mental image of Lucifer curled up with whores, of either sex, naked and lazy and leonine and gorgeous, eating honey off their stomachs, sucking grapes out of their cunts, or their assholes—_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______There are footsteps on the stairs, slightly muffled by carpeting, and Lucifer’s voice gets louder as he descends: “Never mind, Thaddeus, I can—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He draws up short, of course, when he sees Sam. Not quite as naked as Sam had been picturing, though he’s close, draped loosely in a towel, pair of barely-there shorts clinging to his legs underneath. One year hasn’t changed him; there’s something tight about his face that wasn’t there before, a drawn sort of quality, and the circles under his eyes are more pronounced, but overall Lucifer has remained. Well. Stunning. Always startlingly attractive to Sam, even after everything. His features a little sharper than Sam’s memory was allowing, and he stares helpless for a moment, drinking him in._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Lucifer’s throat works for several seconds. Eyes flicking between Thaddeus and Sam, something like an accusation forming there, and Thaddeus says fast:_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“My lord, I had no idea he was returning—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Shut up,” Lucifer interrupts, and all the fluid laziness is gone from his tone. Replaced by cold hard anger, dangerous and powerful. Dimming the whole room by proxy, or perhaps that’s just Sam’s imagination._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Sam takes a step forward. Hands twitching hard at his sides. Mouth working, and if ever there was a time for his throat to regain consciousness, it would be now. But he can’t push a single sound past his lips, every word he wants to say caught up and strangled before it can move into his mouth._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Lucifer says, “Why are you here?” as if his half-composed letter doesn’t exist, all that desperation for Sam to return without Lucifer having to say anything, and he says, “I told you to stay away, I told you Azazel will _kill_ you—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_It’s been a year,_ Sam points out, on his tablet, and Lucifer frowns at that, eyes flicking from the paper to Sam’s mouth. Settling there for a second, looking like he wants to ask, and Sam’s hand tightens on the pen, ready— 

_______But then he says, “When I wake up, I want this to have never happened,” and he says, “Thaddeus, see that Sam has enough money to take a late-night train ride back to Leeds before his idiocy gets him murdered in my parlor,” and he turns, and starts back up the stairs._ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sam bangs on the nearest table, hard enough that the voices in the adjacent room go quiet for a second before resuming. _Don’t you fucking say that,_ he wants to scream. _Don’t you walk away from me again, you fucking coward._

_______But Lucifer’s shoulders remain a tense, hard line, and he won’t turn, and after a few seconds his ascent continues. Leaving Sam as cold and abandoned on the ground floor as he was a year ago._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______~_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Sam stays awake all night. Refuses to leave despite Thaddeus’ cajoling, his bribes and his pleas and even, once, when he grabs Sam’s bag and threatens to throw it outside in the light rain that has started up._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_I have my tablet, that’s all I need,_ Sam tells him, staring at the wall opposite, no emotion in his face. _I can buy other clothes. Do whatever you want to. I’m not leaving._

_______Eventually Thaddeus gives up. Drops the bag on Sam’s feet and leaves, shutting the great glass double-doors that lead into the parlor, and Sam supposes he should be grateful for that at least. Thaddeus giving him some kind of privacy from the rest of the house._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Sam curls up on the lush carpet, head pillowed on his bag. Listens to the soft chatter of guests outside, the light hissing of rain against the windows. It’s cold in the brothel, but Sam doesn’t dare risk going to find another blanket. Not alone. Not with Lucifer’s face burned into the back of his mind like a brand, that cold expression like they don’t share so much between them._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______At some point, he must fall asleep, because the next thing he’s aware of is being tucked under a thick down comforter. Soft real pillow under his head, hands removing his shoes, and he shifts, opening his eyes. Surprised to see Lucifer, fingers hovering over his feet, and it takes Sam a few seconds to realize he’s in his own room. The air a little stale from disuse, but the sheets are fresh, and Sam’s too tired to figure out the logistics of it all, right now._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Sam,” Lucifer murmurs. His eyes on Sam’s now, and Sam had forgotten how it felt to be pinned under that gaze. Intense and scrutinizing and calculating and cold, and he draws in a breath._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“I thought I told you to leave,” Lucifer says. His voice quiet, strained._ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sam reaches for his tablet, set on the table beside the bed. Fingers shaking from over-exhaustion as he writes: _The fact that you took the time to set up my bed after you realized I was here, and then carried me up—kinda negates your whole point, Lucifer._ Shivering at the expression on Lucifer’s face, but he refuses to be the one who looks away first. 

_______Lucifer’s eyes drop to the hollow of Sam’s throat, and Sam can see the question hovering just on the tip of his tongue. “Why,” Lucifer starts, and then seems to remember himself, clearing his throat and shaking his head. Looking away, as though Sam is too painful a thing to even contemplate right now._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______It’s quiet for a little while. Lucifer kneeling beside Sam’s bed, Sam with his face pressed against the mattress. Inhaling scents he never thought he’d experience again, eyes flicking around his room. Where not much has been changed, except that the shelves are empty, and Sam wonders if Lucifer’s been waiting all this time, too._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Azazel hasn’t stopped searching for you,” Lucifer tells him, breaking his thoughts apart. “He will find out you’re here, Sam. He will stop at nothing to have you, dead or alive, doesn’t matter to him—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_I’m not leaving again,_ Sam says, tapping at the sentence viciously with the end of his pen. Underlines the not a few times, eyes hard on Lucifer’s, and after a few seconds Lucifer sighs. Turns away. 

_______“You barely slept,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Lie here for a few hours. I’ll have Inias cook you a plate of something for breakfast.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______The idea of food makes Sam’s stomach churn, as it has for a while now. Vague nausea rising up in his throat, but he just nods at Lucifer. Quirks his mouth in a half-hearted attempt at a smile that Lucifer doesn’t return, though Sam swears he sees the lines on Lucifer’s forehead ease up slightly before he shuts Sam’s bedroom door behind him._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______~_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______The phone rings seven times before anyone picks up: “‘lo,” coming through in a sleep-rough unfamiliar voice, and Lucifer lets out a soft, impatient sigh._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“I’d like to speak to Michael,” he says, and there’s a second’s pause before the phone crackles static over the line, sounds of shifting, low whispering of sheets and people and then Michael is on the line._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Whoever is calling better have a damn good reason,” he slurs into the mouthpiece, and Lucifer snaps, wide awake and digging his nails into his thigh:_ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You _let_ him _go?”_

_______Michael makes an odd sound into the phone, like something trapped and slowly dying. “Lucifer?” he says, sounding a little scared_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_(good because i’m going to **kill** you you irresponsible **fuck** )_

_______and from off the phone Lucifer hears that same unfamiliar voice again. Raised a little in pitch, abrasive argumentative tone starting up:_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Is that Lucifer?”_

_“Dean, don’t start—”_ With his mouth angled slightly away from the mouthpiece, though Lucifer can still hear every word. This Dean—Michael’s whore for the night, probably—sounding increasingly annoyed: 

_“I can start whatever the fuck I want to, Michael—he calls here at ass o’clock in the morning, he’s got **Sam** —which, by the way, whose fault is that exactly?”_

Which Lucifer has to agree with. “You _let_ Sam _leave_ your establishment,” he snarls. “After I specifically told you to keep him there whatever the cost—” 

“He ran away, it isn’t exactly my fault—” Michael starts, and then, off the phone, _“For fuck’s sake, Dean, no, I didn’t know he was going to do that! I sent him up for the—you **know** that, Dean—” _

_“Yeah, well—now Lucifer’s got him again,”_ Dean snaps. _“And you don’t even fucking **care** —”_

_________Lucifer says, “Tell your slut to shut up, this is none of his business—” but Dean must have his ear pressed to the phone, because there’s a sudden, loud shuffling. More static and slippery whispering noises and then Dean’s breathing directly into Lucifer’s ear, low threatening growl._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“You hurt my brother,” he says. “You fucked him over so bad he can’t even _talk_ anymore and now he’s run off back to get more shit from you?” Sarcastic sharp exhale, probably supposed to be a laugh, though it’s far from amused. “Must be some kinda awesome captor’s psychological bullshit you pulled on him—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“Sam’s brother,” Lucifer interrupts. Keeping his tone light, though his whole body is shaking with anger. “So you’re the one Michael took to be his kept boy for all these years. Tell me, Dean, how does it feel, knowing Sam was only two hours from you. Knowing all you had to do was ask, and you could have seen him years ago, but you left him up to the will of the law instead—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“Oh, yeah.” Dean snorts. “Right. Because I’ve heard so many stories about child prostitution rings going dick to dick with the law—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“Dean,”_ Michael huffs, impatient. 

Dean says, _“Yeah, yeah, okay, shit, just a sec’—”_ and then, to Lucifer: “You let him get _raped,_ you piece of _shit._ You don’t care about him, you just like that he can rake in huge shipments of cash for you, but guess what, Lucifer— _you don’t fucking deserve him.”_

_________There’s a scrabbling sound, just then. The phone being transferred once more, and Michael says, “Lucifer, I’m—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“You keep your showroom whore in line,” Lucifer interrupts. His whole body trembling. Hands clenching involuntarily, and he’s seeing red, seething and furious because Dean. Dean was right. “Or I’ll have him brought out here. See how long he survives spread out under one of my clients.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Michael exhales. “What did you want, Lucifer?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“To remind you that Sam was under your care,” Lucifer snaps. “And that I specifically asked you to keep a closer watch on him because he’s under threat of being raped and _killed_ —” 

“I have a full establishment to run,” Michael interrupts, cold and clear-voiced. “Same as you do, Lucifer. I can’t keep my eyes on every single person all the time. I’m not making money by babysitting a child you send over who won’t even _fuck_ —” 

“Don’t you _dare_ use sex as an excuse for letting Sam out of your sight,” Lucifer interrupts. Snarling and furious, both at his brother’s carelessness and at the angry truth of Dean’s words, and he hesitates a second, then slams the receiver down. Drags one hand down his face, staring at the clean stretch of early morning sunlight across the floor, and then he goes into the kitchen. Has Inias fix Sam a massive dish of food—sausage and fruits and eggs and fried potatoes. Takes the proffered tray when it’s done, heads up to the suite. 

_________Sam is curled up where Lucifer left him, a tousled mess of hair and limbs under the thick sheets on his bed. He’s breathing deep, soft snores issuing from where he has his nose scrunched up against the pillow, but when Lucifer walks in he rolls over, immediately awake. Hazel eyes staring up from the line of the quilt, gently slanted at the edges and tracking Lucifer’s every movement as he sets the tray down on a chair by the bed, shuts the door._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“I didn’t know what you’d want for breakfast,” Lucifer tells him. “So I had Inias make a little bit of everything.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

There’s a soft line of pale light coming through the window. Cutting across part of Sam’s face, highlighting the sharp green shards of color in his eyes, the golden lighting in his mostly-dark hair. Casting shadows in the lines around his nose, across the pink bow of his mouth. Making Lucifer want, in ways he thinks he should hate himself for, but it’s been a year. It’s been a _year,_ and he’s drawn forward without boundaries, on instinct. Drinking in every inch of Sam he’d forgotten, forced himself to forget because remembering was like driving a knife into his chest. His palms ache with wanting to touch. He hasn’t felt this much desire for a single person in. Well. Not since the last time Sam was here. 

_________He wants to ask Sam why he isn’t speaking. Kind of wants to yell at him for running from Michael’s, wants to ask him if he’s aware that the problems with Azazel are far from over. Opens his mouth to start and finds himself offering the tray instead. Sitting on the chair in its place and balancing it carefully between them. “Are you hungry?” he asks, and Sam shrugs. Studies the food for a second, then presses a slice of cantaloupe to his mouth. Chews slow, hesitant. Sitting up as he does so, the blanket falling from his shoulders. Lucifer watching helpless, hardly able to believe Sam is back. That this isn’t some hallucination, or one of the desperate aching dreams he’s been having. Where Sam sits before him until he reaches out, and then vanishes in smoke, the tendrils curling around Lucifer’s fingers._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Every second Lucifer spends realizing that Sam has really returned feels like someone slamming his heart in an open door. He can’t get his mind off the memory of Sam’s mouth from the last time he was here, the last time they kissed. Same as he can’t forget the terror in Sam’s eyes the morning he woke up and remembered everything that happened to him with Azazel. There is no question about whether or not Sam’s in danger now, and Lucifer wishes he had the willpower to forcibly remove Sam from the premises. Wishes he could turn and look away while Sam got taken, not just to Michael’s place but to another part of the country entirely._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________The problem, of course, is that Lucifer already let Sam go once. He does not have the will within him to make such a grandiose mistake twice. Just as selfish as he’s always been, and he remembers the night he’d nearly gotten in the carriage with Thaddeus. Driven to Leeds and demanded Sam back from Michael. Forced himself to stop, knowing that one look at Sam and he’d be lost, frantic to have his boy back where he belonged._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Sitting here now, with Sam, Lucifer knows he was right._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_I know you’re gonna yell at me,_ Sam writes, after a while. Setting his mostly-full tray aside in favor of picking up his tablet, and Lucifer wants to ask when the last time was that he ate, but it’s so quiet in the room. So early and slow in the morning, and Lucifer just. Doesn’t have the energy. 

Instead “You acted rashly, Sam,” he says. Keeping his voice level, hands twisting over each other. Trying so hard not to lean in, to touch Sam just there, on the soft clean stretch of skin below his ear. “You left your only place of security so you could return here, and for what? To bargain away your own life? To deliberately place yourself in danger, and after I told you he’d stop at _nothing_ to get his hands on—”

_________Sam’s scrawling across his tablet. Violent angry slash marks, and abruptly he jerks it up so Lucifer can see as he writes. His wrists trembling as he holds the tablet, hand cramped painfully around the pen but the words are clear enough:_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_I came back for **you** , you idiot. I came back because I **missed** you, and we haven’t seen each other in a whole **year** , and I have no idea why you can’t just be happy to see me now—_

_________Lucifer isn’t aware of moving. Isn’t even aware that he’s breathing at all when his hands shoot out, grip Sam’s fingers. Tight and fierce between his own, and Sam’s pen falls, hits the bed, kind of bouncing off the sheet a little. Sam turning wild-eyed and fierce, his mouth a little slack like words are still being dredged up from his throat, struggling to surface, and Lucifer pulls him in. Tangling one hand in Sam’s collar, keeping the other wrapped around Sam’s wrists and he slots their mouths together as if they’ve been doing it every day since the courtyard. Little careful presses of his lips to Sam’s, everything building up until he’s working their mouths together, spit slick and heady with the rush of breathing Sam in. Licking at Sam’s lower lip, and Sam exhales, quiet wrecked desperate sound, draws him in further. His chest hitching as they press up against each other._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

When Lucifer pulls away, it’s just enough to rest their foreheads together. To breathe, “God, Sam, you have no _idea_ how much I’ve—” against his mouth, and his heart jolts in his chest when he hears Sam huff out, amused. Pulling one hand free to tuck against Lucifer’s jaw, drawing him back in. 

_________He doesn’t have to say it out loud for Lucifer to understand what he means._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	15. Chapter 15

Lucifer has a little trouble grasping the concept of Sam not talking. Tries to get him to say things, coaxing him with little light nudges of his lips to Sam’s cheek, or to his ear. Touching the back of his hand and asking him direct questions that can’t be answered with a nod or a headshake and Sam stares at him in fond exasperation, reaching for the tablet every time. 

Fond at first, but when it’s been a week and he hasn’t stopped, Sam realizes Lucifer isn’t going to get it just straight out. 

_Haven’t talked in a year, Luce,_ he writes, pointedly. _Don’t think I’m gonna start any time soon._

“But it’s a choice,” Lucifer says, sounding confused. “It was your choice, wasn’t it? To stop speaking when you got to Michael’s? Unless—” His expression goes dark. “Did something—did Michael force you into anything?” He looks like he’s about to go downstairs and have Thaddeus start up the carriage, drive all the way over to Michael’s right now just to scream at him, and Sam has to put a hand on his arm fast, placating. Shaking his head and kind of stroking his thumb over Lucifer’s skin, raising his eyebrows: _calm down, no, nothing happened._

Lucifer frowns. “I just,” he says. Lifting his free hand and running his thumb over Sam’s lower lip, and Sam doesn’t try to hide his shiver. “I thought.”

Sam knows what he thought. That Sam had been violated again at Michael’s. That Sam’s silence is a product of some new hurt he went through, all because Lucifer was stupid enough to send him away. It’s both touching and annoying, that Lucifer thinks _he_ has to be responsible for every little thing Sam goes through, and Sam touches Lucifer’s wrist before writing: 

_’s okay,_ and, _I know, I get it. I was scared too, when I couldn’t talk. But it’s just life now. I need you to be okay with this, Lucifer. I don’t know if it’s ever going to go away._

He underlines the word ‘need’ a few times, raising his eyebrows, and Lucifer bites his lower lip until the skin shines pale around his tooth, but he nods. Pain clear on his face, his thumb slipping a little off Sam’s mouth, and Sam exhales quietly. Half-closing his eyes, letting the pen drop. Leaning into Lucifer’s touch, letting him run his hand up Sam’s jaw and into his hair. Bringing his other hand around to Sam’s mouth so he can kiss his knuckles, Lucifer’s eyes on him the whole time. 

~

After that, Lucifer has Thaddeus go to town and buy another sign language book, and he and Sam spend a few hours each day pouring over it, Sam teaching Lucifer how to speak and Lucifer seems complacent enough. Even though Sam is being less than subtle about using their sessions as an excuse to sit close to Lucifer. Lightly brushing their arms together on Sam’s mattress, long line of heat from Sam’s thigh pressing into Lucifer’s. Lucifer not exactly doing much to abate Sam’s quest in touching him; running his fingers over the curve of Sam’s hands when he’s shaping words in the air, forming the words back against Sam’s skin. Sam with his head on Lucifer’s shoulder, mouth pressed against his neck when he talks, as if he thinks he can siphon his voice back that way. 

But it’s still not quite the way it was, before Sam left, the first time. 

He’s still dreaming. Still having nightmares, less frequent now than they were, but they still come, and Sam knows being back at the brothel, within range of Azazel again, isn’t doing him any favors. Waking up soaked in sweat in the middle of the night and sometimes Lucifer isn’t there to give him water, to stroke his hair off his face and hold his hands until his trembling stops. Sam’s never sure where Lucifer is, still being mostly cut off from the rest of the brothel

(How exactly do you think he’s going to get his hands on me here with you watching? _Sam asks, half in sign language and half with his tablet, and a pained expression crosses Lucifer’s face._

_“I was at the gala,” he says, “and I failed to see him there. He could get past me again, Sam. Don’t be foolish enough to think otherwise.”)_

but nights when he isn’t around, Sam feels the loneliness worse than when he was at Michael’s. Deep gaping wound in his chest that none of Alastair’s sutures could ever close, and it makes him sit that much closer, kiss that much harder. In the daytime, when both of them are sitting in some sun-dappled part of the brothel, alone and pouring over Sam’s language, Lucifer staring at Sam like he still can’t quite believe he’s here. 

But he won’t _touch_ Sam. At least, not below the waist. Keeps deflecting Sam’s attention from anything even remotely sexual, and it’s _ridiculous,_ the way Lucifer acts like he has to protect Sam, after a year. 

Because Sam’s not an idiot. He knows Lucifer wants, too. Can see it in his eyes, poorly disguised lust and pure, raw hunger, and Sam wonders if Lucifer’s stomach clenches up like a fist too, when they’re in the same room. Wonders if Lucifer spent the last year feeling that raw, hollow ache in his chest, and now that they’re back together it’s hardly been satiated. Limited to little touches, Sam tasting the inside of Lucifer’s mouth but nothing more, and he knows they haven’t been properly together since before the gala, but Sam’s started to recover from that. However slowly, he has, he knows he has, and how could Lucifer not understand that? How could he not know that Sam still wants him, always, in every way possible?

 _I **want** , Lucifer,_ Sam tells him, digging his nails into his palms. _I swear I’m not just. This isn’t me just having some kind of weird sexual thing because I was away for a year and I got horny, this is. This is what I’ve wanted for a long time now. I thought you knew that. I thought you wanted it too._

Lucifer sucks in a tight breath. “Sam—”

 _Please, Lucifer—_ feeling the old argument start up again, swollen and rubbed irritated in his chest. 

“Sam.” Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Looking tired and worn and Sam starts to reach for him, but pulls back at the last second. His hands twitching in mid-air, and Lucifer doesn’t even see through closed eyelids. “You just got home,” he says. “You’re upset and you’re vulnerable and you don’t know what you want—”

 _I know I want you!_ Sam says, stabbing the paper so hard with his pen he breaks a hole through it, but Lucifer won’t relent. Won’t even let Sam stroke him off, and Sam sort of. Doesn’t exactly _resent_ him for it, but. He can’t move on if Lucifer won’t let him. If Lucifer won’t move on _with_ him. 

_(Later, both of them are in the rose garden together. Sam with his head on Lucifer’s shoulder, their fingers intertwined. Lucifer asking Sam to describe the colors he sees, and imitating him with clumsy motions that make Sam smile, his chest hitching in silent laughter. Sam pressing a kiss to Lucifer’s jaw and the smell of dirt and flowers is in his nostrils, and he forgets for a few minutes why he’s mad at Lucifer, right now.)_

They’re down in the kitchen one afternoon, about a month after Sam’s return—

 _(A month during which Sam has barely seen anyone other than Lucifer. The way he knows they both like it, but when he does see the other kids. When he and Lucifer are in the gardens or Lucifer’s office and someone comes by—Brady or Cecily or Sarah, donned in lace and silk and trying to walk and apply makeup in little compact mirrors at the same time—they always stare at him in shock. Shock that quickly turns into annoyance, or that weird jealous anger they’ve always harbored towards him. As if any of them would know what to do with Lucifer’s attention if they actually received it._

_Sometimes they’ll sneer mocking at his tablet, or his sign language book. Always acting like they want to say something, but Sam is never without Lucifer, now, and it amuses him that they won’t even open their mouths around him. They glare, and he levels cold eyes right back, until they turn away, uncomfortable._

_He sees Lilith, too, once, on his way downstairs with Lucifer. She’s standing in her room getting ready in front of the mirror and when she notices him her whole face lights up. Malicious happiness that has his muscles going taut with uncertainty, and only Lucifer’s cool “Watching what doesn’t belong to us, are we, Lilith?” has her turning away. Fluffing her curls and smirking at her reflection, and Sam forces back his shiver and follows Lucifer into the parlor.)_

Lucifer is able to speak a little bit of sign language now without the book, although mostly Sam just resorts to using the tablet. At any rate, it isn’t like he can’t hear Lucifer speaking out loud. Eating together—salad, Sam’s bites slow and choppy

 _(hasn’t been able to eat right since he got to michael’s since he heard lucifer on the phone with michael and realized he was all alone thought it would go away when he came back but his stomach still clenches throat still closes up over food too not just words)_

and Lucifer watching him from under half-lidded eyes, not even trying to hide what he’s doing. There’s a fleck of salad dressing on the corner of Lucifer’s mouth, and Sam’s fingers twitch at his side, wanting to reach in and just—brush it off. Or maybe lean in and just mouth gently at the skin, flicking his tongue out until it was all gone—

“Lucifer?” 

It’s Amelia. Her gaze flitting uncertainly between Sam and Lucifer, and Sam feels something solidify in his chest. Sharp pain coalescing into fear, cold and stark, at the expression on her face. 

Lucifer stares at her as though he doesn’t even know her, bored and disinterested and a little bit annoyed, the groove between his eyebrows suggesting he’s more bemused by her presence than anything else. “What,” he says, kind of flat, and then Amelia mumbles at her feet, so low that Sam has to strain to hear her:

“Your, um. Your clients are waiting for you, sir.”

_Clients._

Sam knew Lucifer had clients. That Lucifer has been fucking other people since Sam left. The first night he came back, and Lucifer had been upstairs with some people, entertaining them and demanding food and so decadent and lazy and _careless_ —Sam shouldn’t be this surprised. This. 

Fuck. He isn’t hurt. He’s not a _child._

But he can’t keep his gaze from flicking over to Lucifer anyway. The salad forgotten in front of him as he watches Lucifer’s face, the way he smooths his expression over, maintaining a sort of cold neutrality in his eyes, a blank nothing in the tight lines of his mouth. Sam thinks he’s the only person here who could see the strain in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw.

But none of this before Lucifer had already glanced over at Sam. His expression torn open and raw, all sorrow and pleading and all Sam can focus on is that Lucifer’s been having clients since Sam. Since Sam came back. 

_(so that’s where he was all those nights you woke up alone you dumb slut you couldn’t have figured that out by now?)_

Lucifer won’t touch Sam, but he’ll fuck strangers, he’ll slide into the wet tight heat of someone he doesn’t even know, all because he thinks Sam doesn’t _want_ this—

“Tell them I’ll be up in a minute,” Lucifer says to Amelia, clipped tones that have her backing out in a hurry, and Sam watches his hand curve around the kitchen counter. White-knuckling the ceramic, his nostrils flared, mouth tense, and it’s very, very quiet for a long time.

Eventually, Lucifer says, “I have to keep the business running, Sam.” Like that’s it. Like Sam’s just supposed to accept it, just because of cash flow. As if he’s still twelve years old and naïve, clueless to the way this world works. Completely oblivious to the fact that Lucifer still has Sam under contract—

Except that he doesn’t. Except that Sam never got signed back on as Lucifer’s sole property, and for an instant he tastes the salad at the back of his throat. Has to work at keeping it down, thick and tacky in his stomach because he doesn’t belong to Lucifer. He doesn’t belong to anyone. 

_It’s fine,_ Sam tells him, without looking him directly in the eyes. One hand moving in the air, the other writing the words down. _I get it. Do what you have to._

Lucifer swallows. Sam watches the movement of his throat, the flex and pull of muscle there. “Sam,” he starts, and Sam shakes his head. Gestures out of the kitchen with his thumb:

 _I can clean up in here,_ he says, _you go fuck whoever it is before they die of blue balls,_ and he thinks he’ll bite straight through his tongue with the force of words pressing in from his throat, crowding up in his mouth but refusing to come out, threatening to strangle him. 

Sam watches Lucifer leave. Waits until he’s gone before he goes into the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Tugs his pants down and grabs his cock, furious, shaking, chest a mass of tight heat, tears welling up steaming hot in his eyes as he grips the sink with his free hand and rocks forward. Jerks and pulls with the tight dry unfamiliar clutch of his fingers, wincing and gasping—strange, erratic bursts of sound that don’t even match up with what Sam remembers he used to sound like. His vision filming over with red, shattering and exploding around him as he digs his nails into the mostly-soft flesh

_(come on, come, you fucking useless bastard)_

and _sinks in,_ digging until the skin is cut bad enough to sting, until he bleeds. He jams his hips against the cold porcelain of the sink and ruts, like an animal, smears blood all over the white tile, but for all the rough raw scraping of dry skin on skin, he cannot do what he knows Lucifer is getting upstairs.

Sam sinks to the floor, head buried in the circle of his arms, and lets himself cry. 

~

He avoids Lucifer for a few days, after. Stays holed up in their suite all the time, refusing to let Lucifer into his room. Not really sure who exactly he’s trying to punish here, but it’s painful as hell for both of them. He can see it in Lucifer’s eyes, when he comes up to bring Sam food. Entering the main area with a tray balanced between his hands, and Sam will turn and walk away, shaking, feeling like shit. Wondering why he’s damning himself when at night he still dreams of no one but Lucifer. Leaning over him with that soft smile and kissing his ear, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Holding Sam and nuzzling at his neck, twining their fingers together and Sam always wakes up crying. 

“ _Talk_ to him,” Ruby hisses in Sam’s ear. “All he does is _mope_ and it’s driving me crazy because then _I’m_ the one who has to deal with his pissed-off clientele—”

 _His fucking clientele can suck his dick and make him happy, then,_ Sam says viciously, but he doesn’t mean it. Shoulders tense and shaking, and it was hard enough being away from Lucifer at Michael’s for a full year. When he was two hours away by train and they had no communication for twelve months. 

It’s impossible to avoid Lucifer when they’re both residing under the same roof. 

So he goes to Lucifer, a week later. Ruby escorting him downstairs to avoid any kind of commotion from either party. Lucifer is talking to Meg, and Sam waits behind them, digging his fingers into his hipbones. Rocking back on his heels and pushing his hair out of his eyes until Lucifer turns from Meg and faces Sam. Surprise plain on his face, and he tries to school it into something more level, more neutral, but it still shines right out of his irises. A beacon of something exhausted and sad and marginally hopeful, all at once.

 _I’m sorry,_ Sam signs, fist rolling in a circle around the center of his chest. _I’m sorry, Lucifer—_

“No,” Lucifer interrupts, taking Sam’s hand, thumb skating across his wrist, and he must feel Sam’s pulse jump, ratcheting from zero to sixty immediately, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Don’t apologize, Sam. I. I should have told you.”

_Luce, I’m seventeen. I’m not a child. I reacted bad and I just. I want to see you while I’m here. Okay?_

Lucifer doesn’t answer for a second, and Sam drops the pen he was holding so he can cradle Lucifer’s jaw with his other hand. Scraping his thumb across the rough edge lined with stubble, and he feels a shiver, barely repressed, rocket up Lucifer’s spine. His eyes slide shut, and Sam taps his nose gently so he’ll look at him again.

_You feeling okay, Lucifer?_ he asks. _Acting kinda soft, is your age finally catching up to you?_

Lucifer narrows his eyes. Acting all irritated, though he stays leaning into Sam’s touch, exhaling quiet against his palm. 

“Respect your elders,” Lucifer mutters, but his mouth is twitching, and just like that, it’s okay again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proceed with caution. This is either the worst chapter, or the second worst, I can't decide yet.

_**Two months after Sam’s return.** _

_God, Lucifer, I’ll be fine if I come with you! I’ll be **with you** , for fuck’s sake._ He’s doing what Lucifer likes to call jagged signing, the closest Sam can come to shouting, now, but Lucifer won’t relent. Just keeps shaking his head, mouth thin, impatience growing on his face the longer Sam goes on. 

“Sam,” he says. “I already told you. No. You aren’t leaving this house.” His hand twitches at his side like he wants to touch Sam, just kinda rest his palm on his shoulder, but he seems to think better of it at the last minute. Lets it stay where it is, curled near his hip. “It’s just for one day,” he says, in what Sam thinks is supposed to be a gentle tone. 

“And it’s only a gala,” he adds after a minute, “you’d be bored out of your mind.”

Which makes Sam flinch. Because the last time they were at a gala

_(bathroom tile pressed to his cheek cool smooth at counterpoint with the rough wet heat slamming into him from behind harsh chemical smell in his nose mixed with blood and he knows he’s dying)_

the worst thing that could’ve happened, happened to Sam. His life, his integrity torn from him in such a short amount of time, and Sam was far from bored, then. Far from anything for a long time after. 

He knows why Lucifer won’t let him go to this gala. He’s sure Azazel will be there, sure that two months of silence is far too long and Azazel has to be lurking, waiting to strike. That he’ll have heard of Sam’s return by now, and that he’ll know where Lucifer is heading today. Probably would see some kind of poetic irony in attacking at a third gala, and after a whole year of never seeing Sam at all. 

So Lucifer is going alone—or, rather, he’s going with Abaddon, but Sam’s still having serious problems wrapping his head around that one. Imagining the two of them showing up, glittering and dark and savagely gorgeous, the way it should be with Sam and Lucifer. _Just_ Sam and Lucifer, no one else, and he wishes he could tell Lucifer to stop fucking other people. To not fuck Abaddon tonight, but he knows Lucifer isn’t going to listen, that he’ll probably get drunk and slide into her tight wet cunt in the deserted courtyard behind the gala hall. Gripping her hips and pretending she’s Sam, all because he thinks he’s doing Sam a favor. Thinks he’s protecting him by not giving him what he wants, what they both want, and Sam can’t stand it—

“Sam.” Lucifer’s voice is sharp, louder than normal. Brings Sam up out of his reverie pretty fast, and when he looks up Lucifer is watching him. Mild irritation crossing his features, all because Sam wants to go out with him. Just this one time, to get out of the brothel. To be seen on Lucifer’s arm again, complementing each other in their suits, everyone staring and awed and knowing exactly who they belong to—

_You have fun at the fucking gala,_ Sam says, angry and hurt and remembering 

_(you have no idea how good you look on my arm, sam)_

what Lucifer told him, at the first gala. _I’ll just be here when you get back. Like I always am. Just holed up in my room staring at the ceiling ‘cause I don’t have anything better to do, won’t even let me dance or serve or touch you like—_

Lucifer grabs Sam’s wrist. Hard. Twists just a little, rough pads of his fingers flexing hard over bone, and Sam winces, mouth pinching in on itself, but he refuses to jerk away. Refuses to let Lucifer see on his face how much it hurts.

“That’s enough, Sam,” Lucifer growls, low. Voice shooting lightning-hot cracks of lust down Sam’s spine. “You’re doing nothing towards convincing me you’re old enough to handle anything like what you claim you want—”

_Yeah,_ Sam signs, one-handed, _because you put so much emphasis on people being old enough to handle sex—_ and he thinks for a minute that Lucifer is going to slap him. 

There’s part of him that wants it, wants Lucifer’s hand colliding with his face. Wants that iron salt taste of blood filling his mouth as his teeth clatter against the inside of his cheek. Wants to feel the stunned pain for hours after, see a bruise forming under his eye as the sun sinks lower into the sky. A physical reminder of Lucifer’s hands on him, even though Lucifer won’t be here. Sick part of him tied to when he was younger, and Lucifer would hit him for his insolence. His sarcasm, before it turned into flirting. Before Lucifer’s hands started caressing Sam so slow and soft he barely even knew how to handle it. 

But Lucifer just drops Sam’s wrist. Turns to the door, his teeth gritted, and “There’s chicken in the icebox,” he says. “For your lunch.”

_Nice to know you’re taking care of part of me,_ Sam mutters, but Lucifer doesn’t see him.

~

The morning goes by slow. Sam lays in bed for a while, not really doing much. Rubbing one hand idly over his trousers, no real intent in mind, nothing going on anyway. Even when he digs his bruised wrist against the rough edge of his waistband, feeling the pain spark lightning-hot up his arm. He tries flipping through an astronomy text Lucifer left him but with the sun shining through his window he finds himself slipping off into sleep, unable to concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time. 

His stomach feels hollow by noon, but Sam won’t eat. Almost relishes the tight discomfort in the pit of his stomach, the faint pain rising up in his throat. If Lucifer isn’t here Sam doesn’t need to force food down in himself anyway, doesn’t need to pretend like it feels normal, having it go all clogged up on his tongue when he puts even the smallest bite into his mouth. Like his throat really is shut, and the food has no way of getting down. 

Instead, he goes out to the orchard. Sprawled out, wild, and as lovely as Sam remembered. The air soft and cool on his skin, no noise from the brothel reaching him at all, and Sam closes his eyes for a second. Remembering the way Lucifer had looked back here, that first time. All hesitance and uncertainty, but he’d wanted it, then. Clear in his eyes, in the soft way he’d looked at Sam, and Sam wonders if maybe. If he could just get Lucifer to come back here with him—do it right this time— 

He lowers himself down under a peach blossom tree, flowers thick and rich and soft lavender. Kicks his long legs out in front of him and stares, arms folded, across the orchard. Sighs. Settles back against the pale trunk. Closes his eyes, ignoring the low rumbling of his stomach, and tries not to focus on anything. If he can just sleep through the rest of today—

The problem with being out in the orchard in the early summer is that there are no dead leaves on the soft grass to sound off intruders. No fallen fruits gone rotten in the ground to squash under careless feet. Sam’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t see the shadows shifting, falling over his lap; he’s half-asleep, his mind dipping and weaving through half-formed dreamscapes, and he doesn’t hear the soft, sinuous breathing until it’s right by his ear, and by then, of course, it’s too late. 

~

Sam’s life becomes narrowed down into flashes of reality. Between periods of time where he blacks out

_—heavy hard breathing in his ear—_

he becomes aware on a hypersensitive level of what’s going on around him. To him. Within

_—sharp steel blade tracing the corner of his mouth running down his throat “feel your pulse beating for me sammy must be as excited as i am”—_

him. He can only feel parts of things 

_—edge of the knife digging into his skin not quite enough to break but “i’ll slit your throat if you don’t open up” thumb on his lower lip dragging tugging pulling and sam opens up no choice no choice—_

like his nerve endings have been severed from his body

_—“c’mon you stupid slut you stupid fucking whore you’ll take what i give you and you’ll fucking **like** it”—_

and dumped onto the ground 

_—thick heavy hot weight sliding across his tongue cock bumping the back of his throat only lucifer’s allowed only lucifer slick dirty filthy inside again sorry sorry so sorry lucifer no choice—_

at his feet. There’s cold air 

_—rough hard hand scraping down his cheek nails on his skin—_

on his bare ass, and 

_—“what’s a’matter, sammy boy, cat got your tongue? can’t even talk? can’t even say hello to me? ain’t seen you in a year, sweetheart, didn’t you miss me? i sure missed you”—_

something burning, something _hard_ getting shoved into Sam’s most intimate places, but it’s detached. Like it’s happening

_—“fucking **scream** , you little bitch! good whores do what they’re told, why don’t you fucking **talk**?”—_

to someone else. Making him wish he _was_ someone else. Less careless. Smarter. The kind of person who

_—deep thrusting, raw painful dry skin shoved hot inside scalding sam’s ass dragging hard against him pulling off skin and blood like paint peeling from the inside—_

would know how to shove Azazel off, this second time. The kind of person who wouldn’t have let something like this happen again, not for this long

_—“gonna come, gonna come, sam, why the fuck aren’t you coming, you dumb fucking **slut** , should be painting my hand—oh— **fuck** —with your come, jesus, sure i’m the best lay you’ve had all year”—_

and certainly would’ve been able to find his voice by now. To start screaming. To bring someone from the house, someone who 

_—“just us sammy boy, just you an’ me”—_

could help.

_—“ol’ luci ain’t here, i know, i know” stinging slap across his cheek “don’t cry you little bitch, i didn’t tell you to cry—i stalked him for months, i found out his schedule” nails digging into sam’s chest, thin skin right over his heart “just pure dumb luck you’re here now, just been waiting for this for so long, you have no idea” dragging the cold metal of the knife down sam’s cheek digging in sharp pain exploding violent in his face cock thick with blood against sam’s thigh rutting into the groove of his hip and the knife oh god the knife too slipping curious frozen into sam’s ass skin so loose it goes easy but it **tears** oh god it tears something inside him and sam’s shaking so hard his stomach cramps throws up and gets slapped for it “you got it all over my **hair** , you stupid **whore** ” sam’s hair tugged up body knocked over onto his stomach right in the sick feeling it slop warm and sticky over his chest but it’s not really him this isn’t happening to him as azazel knocks his knees apart digs his fingers into sam’s hips “i’ll fuck you into submission, first go-round wasn’t enough”—_

And then there’s a gunshot. 

It rings out loud in the orchard, echoing through the empty trees, between the branches. Sam feels—thinks he feels—a deadweight fall on top of him, but he can hardly concentrate with the noise ringing in his ears. Piercing shrieking wailing combined with the echo of the gunshots 

_(multiple shots sam feels the vibrations running through his body would be afraid that he’d get shot too except he’s not real, he’s not real he’s not here right now and none of this is **happening** )_

and then the deadweight is being peeled off him. Azazel’s body dumped to the side, Lucifer dropping the gun in the grass. Hands on Sam’s arms and Sam flinches away so violently it jars his head, makes him throw up again. 

“Sam,” Lucifer is saying, over and over, a mantra, hands everywhere above Sam’s shoulders, trying to pull him in, trying to carry him. Sam can barely hear him over the buzzing in his mind, the blackness swallowing up his vision—

Sam is _screaming._


	17. Chapter 17

“Well,” Lilith says, “at least now you know his vocal cords aren’t damaged,” and Lucifer slams his fist into the side of her face. Cold rage surging through him as he snaps her head to the side with the force of his blow, his knuckles digging so hard into her flesh he can feel the grooves of her teeth against his bones. 

She laughs, bloody messy sound. Turns to the side and spits out a mouthful of copper-tinged saliva, carefully tucking the long blonde curls that cascade down her back out of reach. “Calm down, sweetheart,” she says, tapping one long manicured fingernail against Lucifer’s hand. “Your Sammy is going to be just fine.”

Lucifer jerks his hand away. He’s standing with his back to the wall, facing Lilith head-on. Can’t get his mind off 

_(blood so much blood sam screaming his back arching off the gurney and lucifer’s spent months wishing sam’s voice would return but now he would get on his knees and beg to make it go away again)_

the way Sam had looked, when they were rushing him in. The blood smeared all over the back of his pants, running in crimson rivulets down his legs, dried up in places and still shining in others. Coagulated and messiest around the torn ruined hole of his ass, scraped up and down his chest, over his face, smeared into his hair. Black eyes and his cheek sliced open and his mouth stained in red and white. 

Sam had been sobbing between screams, his face sluiced with wet, and Lucifer had wanted to run in with him, hold his hand the whole time, but Alastair shoved him back. Intent on his job for once in his goddamn life, and the last thing Lucifer had seen was Casey and Samhain bending over Sam’s prostrate body, Alastair advancing with a scalpel, wicked cruel twist to his mouth. 

So forgive him for being on edge about this. 

Thinking about his Sam. His gentle, sloe-eyed Sam. With the soft smile curved on his mouth reserved solely for Lucifer. The slow way he moves on the hottest days in the summer. The sprawl of his fingers when he’s speaking to Lucifer, his hands getting tangled up in each other from excitement. The quiet, pleased expression on his face when Lucifer had started becoming fluent enough in sign language that he could read it without the tablet. 

Sam curled over a book, head pressed against his palm, eyes scanning each word so careful. Sam staring out the window late at night, forehead on the glass, staring up at the sky, reaching out for the stars, distant burning suns that would never know Sam’s own brilliance. 

The gentle curve of Sam’s neck. The crush of his hair where it falls just so against his nape. The softest, lightest touches of his mouth against Lucifer’s, against his knuckles, his palm. The tuck of his head against Lucifer’s neck, the warm heavy weight of him when he’s fallen asleep on Lucifer’s shoulder. 

Sam, who asked him—begged him, really—to take him to that gala. Sam, who stayed holed up for two full months in his room after he came back. Sam, who hasn’t spoken a word since his return, but who has taken the time to try and ease Lucifer into his new silent world.

Sam, who wouldn’t be in that adjacent room right now if Lucifer had just let him come along. 

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Lilith starts laughing at him, the bruise on her face forming prettily against her pale skin. “Oh, god, you _have_ gone soft for him, haven’t you—” she starts, eyes taunting. Daring Lucifer to make the next move, and he lunges at her. Hands stretched out, ready to close around the perfect column of her throat, to crush her trachea for even _speaking_ right now— 

But then the door opens. 

Lucifer stumbles back from Lilith, nails tearing a little against her skin where he’d just started to catch his fingers around her neck. Spins to face Casey, standing there with blood stained across the white of her doctors’ robe, mouth set in a grim line.

“I need to see him,” Lucifer tells her. Hard, flat voice, as cold as the adrenaline shooting through his veins. Usually brooks no argument, gets him in anywhere, but she’s shaking her head, shutting the door and leaning back against the wall. As though she thinks that she could keep Lucifer out of any room Sam is in.

“He’s very heavily sedated right now,” she says. “He won’t be coming out of his unconscious state for several hours at least, and we all think it might be in Sam’s best interests if—” 

“If _what,”_ Lucifer interrupts, snarling. “If he sees someone he recognizes when he wakes up? Someone he knows? If he has _familiarity_ around in this fucking situation—”

“You’ll have to forgive Luci, here,” Lilith says, her voice a little strained. “This sort of thing is a—kind of sore subject for him—” 

He isn’t even aware of turning back to Lilith until he’s got her pinned up against the wall, his hands around her neck all the way, now, thumbs digging into the hollow of her throat. Knee shoved hard against her crotch, teeth gritted, bared in a vicious snarl. 

He says, “You say one more word and you’ll be dead before the last syllable leaves your mouth, do you hear me,” and she chokes on a laugh, grating hoarse sound, twisting her neck in a futile attempt at getting it out of Lucifer’s tight grasp. Mocking him with her eyes but she doesn’t try speaking, her heart racing rabbit quick under his skin. 

He knows he should kill her for saying what she did. If this was any other circumstance, she’d already be dead, just as broken and shattered on the floor as Azazel is outside in the orchard. But he’s having a hard time focusing on anything that isn’t Sam. Anything that isn’t the echo of Sam’s screams echoing in his head, loud and clanging. Anything that isn’t remembering

_(“Oh Jesus, Sam,” babbling half out of his mind, knowing full well Sam can’t even hear him but god he needs to keep talking, feels like if he stays quiet too long his head will explode, “oh, god, fuck—Sam—I’m so sorry—”)_

the events of today. Strewn out like diseased entrails, coating everything with blood and gore. So that even when they’ve scrubbed and scrubbed they’ll never be able to make it clean. 

Sam will wear this for the rest of his life. Lucifer knows how he’ll see himself, now. Knows no matter what he says or does, Sam will loathe himself. The last year he spent away from Lucifer’s falling to pieces as if it never happened, all that recovery dashed useless against stone. 

Lucifer can blame himself all he wants for this, but Sam’s never going to hear him. 

Casey says, quiet, “In the state Sam was brought in, we’re just not sure if he’d recognize you,” and Lucifer says, with his eyes still fixed on Lilith’s, _daring_ her to say another word:

“Fine. Let me in now, then. Before he wakes up.”

~

They clear out for Lucifer. Samhain and Casey staying silent about the whole ordeal, but Alastair smirks and sneers and clears his throat so much that Lucifer finally snaps, whirling on him.

“What the _fuck_ do you want,” he snarls. Glaring half at Alastair, half at the gauzy white sheet separating him from being able to see Sam. Every second he can’t have his eyes on his boy himself is another second wasted. Another second Sam could be awake and wondering where Lucifer is—whether to draw comfort from him or to beat the shit out of him for leaving, Lucifer wouldn’t care, just so long as Sam was alive. 

“Hmm,” Alastair hums absently, dropping his tools into one of the automaton’s waiting arms, to be sterilized and put away. “Nothing, Luci, of _course_ —” 

Lucifer wants so badly to wrap his hands around Alastair’s neck he can feel the stubble already scraping at his palms. _“What_ —” he starts again, growling, and Alastair laughs. Unpracticed off-key sound, and Lucifer has to grit his teeth against the shiver railing down his spine. 

“I’m just, hmm—I’m not sure Sam will recover properly from another rape.” There’s something sharp-edged and cruel in his eyes, uneven and toxic. “Especially not one orchestrated by the same man who did it the first time—”

“Get _out,_ Alastair—” 

“Are you sure Sam will understand that your—hmm, _remarkably_ coincidental absence during both of these times is _only_ coincidence?” Alastair asks, and Lucifer’s hands twitch immediately for one of his carving knives before he realizes the automaton has already taken them all away. 

“Fifty thousand pounds to keep your loose mouth shut while you clean up what’s left of Azazel from the orchard,” Lucifer says. “See Thaddeus about it before you leave.”

“I just find it so funny that both of you have such an _obsession_ with this boy, yet—hmm, only one of you has ever managed to fuck him—” and by the time Lucifer’s hands have closed around the scissors, ready to impale them in his neck, Alastair’s already gone. That laugh echoing down the corridor as he disappears. 

Lucifer takes a few breaths. Exhales shaky, slow. His whole body tense and thrumming like a live wire, so furious he can barely see, and only by clenching and relaxing his fists rhythmically is he able to get his heart rate down. 

Chest tight, he walks to the curtain surrounding Sam’s bed. Hesitates with his fingers curved just around the edge, trembling like he hasn’t seen worse than this. Done worse than this—

_(lived through this)_

Lucifer swallows back a sudden rush of nausea and tugs the curtain away from Sam’s bed.

He’s covered mostly in a sheet. Only his head and part of his shoulders sticking out, but there are tubes running in under the blankets. Wires to help him breathe around what Lucifer knows are bruised ribs, a metal canister pumping fluids into his veins. Keeping his electrolytes balanced. 

His face is bruised, worse than it was when Lucifer carried him in. Throat covered in fingermarks Lucifer hadn’t even noticed before, slashes all down his skin—some deep enough to scar. Blood drying in clots where Alastair either forgot or didn’t feel like bothering to wipe it away, and Lucifer’s hand is already moving towards a spare washcloth nearby before he has time to think about it. Dipping it in a bowl of water beside Sam’s head and wiping the blood off his cheeks, his neck. Feeling Sam’s pulse sluggish and unsteady under his fingers, and his own heart jumps in his chest. Tight with worry, and Lucifer bites his lower lip until he tastes blood springing up in his mouth.

Sam asleep is quiet. Peaceful. His 

_(ruined)_

mouth slightly open because of the breathing tubes, long eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks. That soft crush of hair hanging low over his forehead, and Lucifer reaches out, pushes it back. Rubs his thumb absently over a cut on Sam’s eyebrow, pulling back immediately when Sam flinches in his sleep, feeling like his hand is burning. Burning off with his sin, with the sin of abandoning Sam to that animal. The sins of carelessness and forgetfulness, deliberately living in denial because it had just been so _good,_ having Sam back. Purposefully letting his guard down because he didn’t want Sam in trouble at the gala, and in his stupidity he forgot that Sam was in as much trouble at home as he would have been anywhere else. That Azazel would always, always be one step ahead, no matter how much precaution Lucifer tried to take. 

Lucifer watches a splash of water hit Sam’s bed and absently registers that he’s crying, but he doesn’t care. Reaches under Sam’s blanket, feeling around until he finds his hand. It’s covered in tubes and bandages but Lucifer holds on anyway, stroking the inside of Sam’s wrist with his thumb. Shivering, watching Sam breathe, the regular inhale-exhale of the machine going in time with him. 

He doesn’t even know the full extent of Sam’s injuries yet. He saw Sam on the gurney, he saw the blood staining Casey’s clothes—there’s blood on his clothes, too, if he looked down, but that would mean looking away, and Lucifer can’t. Not right now. 

Sam whimpers and shifts in his sleep, and Lucifer strokes his wrist, watching. 

“It’s okay, Sam,” he whispers, “I’m here. I’ve got you,” and in his sleep, Sam sighs. 

~

The first thing Sam’s aware of is pain. Slow coming and right at the beginning it’s barely there, just hinting on the edge. Crawling into his bones, between his muscles, in his veins. Looking for a place to settle down. 

“His vitals are picking up,” Sam hears, from somewhere to his left, muzzy blurred voice coming into his ear through something like water, and he twists his body away on instinct. Feels soft silk underneath and something warm and heavy on top and 

_(“how d’you like it boy you like it from behind on top how about i just drape myself on you hold you down you know you want it”)_

he makes a soft choked sound, throat sore and unused to this much wear. Trying to get away from all this smothering suffocating— 

“He’s waking up,” the voice says, and Sam’s trying so hard to keep it down but he’s more conscious now than he meant to be and the pain shatters across whatever barrier was holding it back. Floods his system and shoots down his spine. Across his arms, his neck. Into his face and his shoulders and his ass and he’s not even aware that he’s started screaming until someone slams a hand down on his mouth:

 _“Shut up,_ will you, Sam, Jesus—god, someone get me the drip, _fuck_ —”

There’s a _hand_ on his _mouth._ Rough and calloused and unfamiliar and Sam _bites,_ vicious, still screaming, his body twisting and thrashing now, oh, god, the _pain_ —the pain snaking through him. His ass feels on fire, thighs burning, like the skin’s been seared off. He arches his back off the bed as the hand is torn from his face—

“Fuckin’ _uncontrollable_ —” and then something sharp jammed into his arm. Violent sudden movement and Sam moans, twists from the pain. More pain. A lifetime of it. _Fuckfuckfuck—_

He forces his eyes open. Dizzying too-bright white lights overhead, everything stark and buzzing and faces swimming in and out of focus as his brain starts to melt back into oblivion— 

“Be quiet, kid, you don’t want the boss raining hell on us,” he hears, and someone shoves something into the space between his legs, something cold and unforgiving 

_(another knife oh please god not another knife)_

and at least this time Sam’s brain is kind enough to let him pass out before he has to go through it all again. 

~

“Is he awake?”

Casey shuffles her feet uncomfortably. “Um. He _was_ —”

Lucifer pauses. Eyebrows lifted. Mouth set in what he’s trying to maintain as a neutral frown, though he can tell from the way Casey backs up, it’s anything but. “What do you mean, he _was?”_

Her eyes drop from his to the floor and he reaches under her chin, jerks her head back up. “Look at me,” he says, quiet. Controlled. “What do you mean, Sam _was_ awake?”

It’s been nine hours since Sam was brought in. Six hours since he forced himself to leave Sam’s bedside, knowing that all the gentle soft words in the world weren’t going to wake Sam up before his body was ready. Six hours of Lucifer drinking and fucking senselessly into every available warm body—Lilith included, ramming her against a wall, shoving into her from behind. Gripping her hair in his hand and digging his nails into her skin hard enough to leave blood trails as he pounded her slick wet cunt, snarling filth and degradation into her ear and she just laughed, took it, _good whore—_

An hour since Tessa came and found Lucifer. Brought him back to the hospital wing with her mouth pinched, eyebrows drawn in. _It’s Sam,_ she said, her voice trembling, and Lucifer felt something tight clench up in his chest. Had to stop briefly in his office so he could get his gun out, knowing that if something had happened to Sam. If Alastair had allowed Sam to die on his table while Lucifer was rutting his way across the brothel. None of them would walk out of that room, Lucifer included. None of them would survive if Sam did not. Lucifer would not allow himself to survive if his stupidity had brought about the end of the only person who meant anything to him. Who had ever meant anything to him at all. 

Casey says, “He woke up, started screaming—I think he was confused about where he was, and who he was with, so we had to. Um.” She’s staring at the wall behind Lucifer’s head and he doesn’t have the patience to deal with this. Jerks her jaw over, ignoring her sudden, sharp inhale of pain. 

_“What did you do to Sam?”_ he growls, feeling so on edge, a wire ready to snap.

“We sedated him,” she says, fast. “Alastair just sedated him. He slipped back into a comatose state. For the time being. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Lucifer smiles at her, predatory. He’s not even aware of tightening his grip on her jaw until he feels the bones starting to grind under his fingers. “Is that all.” Backs her up, closer to the wall. Free hand on his gun, where it rests in the back of his trousers, snug inside the waistline. “Instead of calling for me, you decided to knock Sam out again. I see.” Furious with her, on principle, but more with himself. Because if they had called for him—what would he have done? Come stumbling downstairs drunk and reeking of sex and sweat? The latest whore still hanging off his arm and his pants only half pulled up as he tried to calm Sam down—

 _(dangerous lucifer you’re so dangerous to him and you’re too selfish to admit you can’t be near him you knew he wasn’t safe here why did you let him stay)_

Casey swallows. “Um.” And then, daring: “I mean, it’s not like he’s _dead_ —”

Arm on her throat. Just inches from crushing her trachea, and he’s barely moved, is barely even breathing, but he can feel her pulse racing under his skin. A rabbit caught in a snare, his victim, the first one that will pay if Sam dies tonight. 

“You will ensure that continues to be the case,” Lucifer says. So soft. Bringing the gun out and sliding it up her sternum, until it rests on her chin. Right next to his arm, and he hears her gasp, feels her chest hitch where he has their bodies pressed together. “Because _if_ Sam dies—if Sam’s death is caused by your continuing to sedate him, when his body is trying to heal itself—I will not have mercy. I will not stop until every single person responsible for his care in this hospital is dead.”

The gun is trembling, his grip slick with sweat, but she doesn’t comment. 

A thought crosses his mind, fleeting and barely there but it burns like fire. “Where were you?” he asks. “Where the _fuck_ were you— _any_ of you—when Sam was taken?” Because he knows where he was. That goddamn gala. Abaddon on his right arm, where Sam should have been, and a champagne glass at his fingertips. False smiles and tight nods at everyone for half an hour, mind always on Sam. Head always half-turned to shoot out some sarcastic comment in Sam’s ear before he remembered who was really there with him, and he hadn’t even tried to disguise how little he cared for his current company. 

Thirty minutes of this before his boredom, his need to see Sam, overrode his social need to appear, and he came home. And found— “Where were you when Sam was being _raped_ in the orchard? Why didn’t you come when you— _how did Azazel get past the guards?”_

Casey’s eyes are wide. She looks helpless and terrified and “I—I don’t—” she stammers, fraying Lucifer’s nerves down into nothing. 

“Who the fuck let him in?” he snarls. Blaming her, blaming the entire brothel because it’s easier than hating himself like he wants. “Was it Alastair? Lilith? _Someone_ must have allowed him past security. Someone _let that bastard into the fucking orchard_ and now Sam is bleeding to death in that room because of _your_ carelessness—Sam has been violated because you could not protect him and _if_ he dies, it is on all of your hands. _All_ of you.”

She keeps her mouth shut. But Lucifer can read it in her face

_(your fault)_

what she’s thinking. Her accusations, quiet and stark and he can’t stop thinking about it but he wants to kill her anyway. For even daring to think—

From behind the door comes a sound. Tiny, broken thing Lucifer would not have heard under normal circumstances. But this is. These are not.

He tears away from Casey, from his vague idea of ripping her throat out for the insolence he can read in her features. Shoves his gun back into his trousers, then thinks better of it and sets it on the floor. Skids it off with his foot so that it clatters metallic across the shining tiles. Goes to the door and leans, listening. His heart in his throat when he hears the cry a second time, a conscious moaning, fevered and upset and Lucifer’s fingers clench on themselves.

_(just go in you coward you weakling just go in and take whatever he gives you let him kill you if he wants it’s all you deserve)_

He pushes open the door. Doesn’t wait for Casey to say he can, not like he’s ever needed her permission—hers or anyone else’s—when it comes to Sam. The bed curtains are still pushed back, and Sam is lying there. Eyes shut, but Lucifer can tell he’s awake. Chest hitching as he breathes, electrolyte regulator beeping soft, and Lucifer takes one step forward, and then stops. His entire body on lockdown, and all he can do is whisper:

“Sam.” 

~

Someone is standing at his door.

Sam can feel his presence, can hear him breathing. Sharp short huffs of air coming from nostrils _breathing right into his ear panting in time with his thrusts—_

“Sam,” kinda quiet hesitant voice. Controlled and shaking and Sam moans. Twists away—or he tries to. Feels the hard resistant weight of something leather and firm wrapped around his wrists instead. Something nylon and tight and Sam is. Sam is— 

_(restrained he’d like that he wanted that he)_

_(you want me to tie you down don’t you boy you want to be held down you’d like that if i tied you up how about if i)_

Words floating into his mind from somewhere in his memory and Sam’s stomach roils. Feels like a thousand hands are brushing against him, fingers curving around his arms and legs and he can’t fucking _breathe—_

He hears his name again, a little more forceful, a little closer, but he’s already drifting off, fading into nonexistence. Because if he’s not really here—how can anyone else hurt him?


	18. Chapter 18

Everything goes disjointed for a while, after. Sam’s world narrowed into uneven brackets of time where he can only focus for a few seconds before he’s sucked back under: 

**_Flash._**

Lucifer at his bedside, tense and worried. “I’m right here, Sam, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, words coming and going in Sam’s mind, fading in and out. His fingers 

_(scraping tugging carving sam out)_

wavering on the point of reaching out and Sam pulls back, helpless—

**_Flash._ **

Alastair changing his bandages, smirking as he hums to himself, muttering low, “You know, it’s really _quite_ odd that the day Luci left you here alone is the same day Azazel showed up,” and Sam whimpers, jerks away—

**_Flash._ **

Sam with a cold press on his neck, face throbbing—

**_Flash._ **

Lucifer not touching, never touching anymore as he sits. His eyes flicking over Sam’s face, something desperate and hopeless twisting his mouth. Features sliding into someone

_(older more square-shaped jaw cruel malicious eyes unnatural color that smile those teeth)_

else’s, Sam’s screams blocked in his throat but he strains his neck anyway, trying—

**_Flash._ **

~

He leaves the hospital wing three days after 

_(his second violation worse than the first so much worse ruined him forever tainted him can’t get it out now can’t wipe it clean visible marks this time)_

the incident in the orchard. Stands shaking on legs that haven’t felt right since he woke up, gripping the side of the bed until his knuckles turn white. There’s a dull throb in the back of his head that won’t go away, a burning ache in his throat where Azazel scratched him. His cheek stitched together and he can feel the skin there cooler than the rest of him, a little numb with salve. His right wrist is still yellow with fading bruises from where Lucifer gripped him the morning before he left, and he touches them absently, remembered pain floating up through his arm. From when pain was still something Sam knew. Something he could handle, within his control. 

“You take it easy, Sam, okay?” Casey says. Her hand hovering over his shoulder like she wants to touch, but can’t quite make herself. Which is fine, Sam’s not sure what he’d do if she touched him right now anyway. Already she’s too close, all of them are too close just standing there, just existing near him breathing the air he’s breathing waiting for him to make a move to have a breakdown to—

“Sam.” Lucifer’s voice, from the doorway. Where he’s leaning, languid and casual stance but there’s something hard and cold in his eyes, and Sam is too tired to distinguish whether it’s meant for him or not. Rationally supposes it isn’t, but then again Lucifer hasn’t touched him since he woke up. “Come with me,” he says, holding out his hand, but Sam

_(can’t)_

won’t take it. Limps forward instead, until he’s standing beside Lucifer, feeling his shoulders hunch inward so his back won’t take much weight. All scraped up and sore from where Azazel

_(landed right on top of his spine when he got shot his body thudding down sick wet sound as his blood splattered into sam’s hair)_

fell. Rubbing his thumb over his wrist, wincing at the pull of sore skin where the cuffs were attached. Shifting his legs and feeling the burn and tug between them, hot and omnipresent. A reminder that Sam is no longer whole. No longer human. Torn apart once, put back together so fragile—no wonder Azazel was able to rip him open a second time. Sam’s damaged goods now, just cheap secondhand ruined material no one will want—

Alastair hums at him, reaching out, “You remember to watch yourself, Sammy, hmm—never know who might betray you here,” and Sam goes stiff. Body jerking away instinctively, and he crashes backwards into Lucifer, still unsteady on his feet. Off-balance. Shaking when he feels Lucifer’s hands on his arms, steadying him. Like it’s instinctive, can’t help it—but Sam flinches from him too. Gasping, chest seizing up, the warmth of Lucifer’s skin too much too soon, the rough touch of it unfamiliar and Sam is _surrounded,_ closed-in on all sides—

_(“how d’you like to be covered up like this sam isn’t this **fun** boy all these months without you missed your scent not even eighteen yet so **supple** —”)_

He backs up, breathing hard, trembling all over. _Don’t touch me,_ he says, his first words in days. Hands sore, fingers clumsy with disuse, but only Lucifer understands. Only Lucifer knows, and Sam sees a flash of—something—in his eyes before he steels it over, careful blank nothingness on his face as he moves away. Giving him a good five-inch berth, and Sam wants so badly to be grateful to him, but he can’t focus on anything right now except the tight hot feeling of his skin. The desperate urge he has to claw it all off with his nails, and he hasn’t felt like this in months— 

Sam says, _I need to go,_ and inches towards the stairs, legs still shaking so bad he can barely stay upright. Watching all of them, shivering, refusing to put his back to anyone until he can’t see them anymore.

He hears Alastair say, all sarcasm and annoyance, “I wasted three days with that ungrateful slut and he doesn’t even _thank_ me—” interrupted by a violent sound, gunshot loud, that can only be Lucifer hitting him, and Sam turns, and he runs. Makes it into the parlor before he’s stopped by Abaddon, standing flanked by Meg. For once Meg isn’t smirking at Sam, just watching him, her eyes serious, mouth pulled down at the corners. She’s wearing black lingerie under her usual maroon leather jacket and Sam shudders with revulsion at the sight of bruises sucked into her flat toned stomach. 

_I don’t need your pity,_ Sam tells them. Furious at the blank expressions on their faces, at their inability to communicate with him. 

Abaddon, in all-black leather and carrying a riding crop coiled tight at her side

_(“wish i could’ve stopped in one of the little whores’ rooms on the way out here could’ve gotten something real interesting for us some kinda toy i’m not blind sammy boy i see the bruises i remember last time i know you like pain”)_

is staring at Sam, soft red hair curling over her shoulders. 

“You know he made us leave early for you,” she says, and Sam’s throat jerks hard as he swallows. There’s no tablet, nothing to write with, so all he can do is shake his head. Something rattling around painful in his skull but Abaddon doesn’t see the way he winces, just snorts. Obviously disgusted by and irritated at Sam, as young and inexperienced as he must seem to her—

 _(not inexperienced anymore)_

“I mean, yeah, he was bored. But it was because you weren’t there.” She’s sneering. Disbelief evident in her eyes. “I told him you were okay here,” she says. “But apparently Lucifer has a penchant for you, even now, all these years later—even though you spent all that time refusing to comply with the orders and just _fuck_ like everyone else—”

“Don’t,” Meg tells her, sharp and a little scared. “God, you want him shooting us too?”

Abaddon rolls her eyes. Smacks the crop against the flat of her free hand, still staring at Sam. “He insisted on coming back way before the gala was over just so he could—and I quote—‘check up on you’. He brought his gun with him. Just in case. So, y’know—” She pauses, nostrils flared out in annoyance. “He saved your life. Wouldn’t have done it for any of us because we don’t _matter,_ but he did it for you.”

Sam feels his eyebrows furrowing together over the bridge of his nose. Wants to ask Abaddon and Meg if it’s possible. If Lucifer could have _known—_

But he’s exhausted. Legs giving out from under him, every part of him aching and sore, and all he can do is nod at Abaddon and shove past them both, up the stairs. Never seemed so high as they do now, Sam struggling against gravity, and it feels like years before he reaches their suite, and then his own room, cloying stale smell of being shut up for several days. Sheets still unmade from the last time he was in here, and Sam bites clean through his lower lip thinking of how, just three days ago, he lay here with his hand spread over his crotch. Trying for something he knows has long since been broken, something he’s never going to have again. Not with Lucifer. Not now. 

He sinks down onto the floor, back to the wall. Stares at his ruined arms, bruised and covered in slow-healing scars. There’s a bandage wound around the worst one, on his left arm, Sam can’t even remember where it came from 

_(yet)_

but he tugs the wrappings off. Stares at the wound. It’s long and jagged and deep, stitched up and oozing a thin clear liquid, and Sam doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing. Whether he should be doing it or not as he hooks a fingernail under the stitches and tugs up. Doesn’t think as he tears into the skin, busting it open, blood gushing out, spilling over his fingers and onto his lap. Soaking into him, into the carpet, and Sam scratches and tugs until his whole arm is throbbing, and even then he can’t mute the pain between his legs. It’s a phantom ache and he thinks in some dislodged back corner of his mind that he should know that but there’s nothing connecting his brain to his body right now, Sam free-floating in mid-air as he has been ever since—ever since. Cannot get the sensation of Azazel’s thick cock shoved into him out of his head. Cannot let go the feeling of being ripped apart from the inside out. Flayed open. Left for dead—

His hands are claws on his face, ripping through cuts and bruises, scraping down his neck and his fingers vibrate as he screams, only sound he can make. Blood flowing everywhere, sticky and staining his skin, hot smelling like copper like sickness like

_(“mm that’s right bleed for me”)_

that afternoon. Vision spotting in front of his eyes and Sam thinks he knows why his wrists were strapped down as he falls to the side, covered in his own blood, stained as much now outside as he is within.

He feels momentarily light-headed, that distinct snapping again as he floats away from himself, and then Sam is gone.

~

_(Through a haze, minutes or perhaps days later:_

_“Open the door, Sam. Open the fucking—Sam. Sam! God. Ruby—push on this with me—don’t you dare give me that look would you just—Sam! Fuck! Oh, Jesus, Sam—what the fuck did you **do** , foolish boy—Ruby, get Casey—no, not Alastair, get **Casey** and get towels. **Now**.”_

_Fingers in his hair, barely-there brushing along his scalp, and he wants to flinch away but he can’t make his body move right—_

_“Hang in there, Sam—god, don’t you know I—you’re so **stupid** , why would you—”_

M’not stupid, _Sam thinks, in a hazy, detached sort of way, and then he passes out again.)_

~

The next time Sam opens his eyes, it’s dark outside. Moonlight shining through the half-shut curtains on his bedroom window, streaking raw and pale across his covers. The room is totally dark otherwise and Sam would think he was alone except he can _feel_ Lucifer in there with him, sitting somewhere not quite close enough to his bed to touch. Just. Existing nearby. 

His arms are a mess, pinned where they are against his sides, under sheets wrapped so tight Sam’s sure he must look like one of the mummies in that ancient Egyptian book Lucifer gave him for his fourteenth birthday

 _(“What’s the catch?” Sam asks, suspicious, squinting through too-long bangs at the cover._

_Lucifer is glaring at him, arms folded across his chest. “There is no catch. I’m **giving** this to you. It is your birthday, isn’t it?”_

_Sam grunts, doesn’t answer. His finger riding a slow path down the ridged outline of the god Anubis on the cover, and only when Lucifer clamps a hand down on the book’s edge does he look up again. Heart pounding at the sudden movement. At the black look in Lucifer’s eyes._

_“Didn’t they teach you manners at that orphanage?” he asks. Quiet. Calm, except for the tense line in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. “Don’t you know how to say thank you?”_

_“If saying ‘thank you’ is so polite,” Sam says right back, snarking and angry, “how come you don’t thank the prostitutes here for spreading their legs and giving up their dignity when you walk through the door—”_

_The hit sends him reeling backwards, spine colliding with the wall, cheek throbbing. He tastes blood, feels it trickle out the corner of his mouth, and doesn’t hesitate before he spits it all on the floor. Glaring at Lucifer the whole time, heated and hardly able to believe he’s just turned fourteen. Lucifer staring right back, his mouth thin, the skin white and taut. Sam can see him clenching his fists in an effort to maintain some semblance of control._

_“You’re going to clean that up, insolent whore,” Lucifer snarls at him. “Don’t forget, it’s only because I say so that you’re not in there spreading your pretty thighs with the rest of them.” He storms out, slamming the door so hard it rattles Sam’s body, and only when Sam hears his footsteps descending the stairs outside does he sink to the floor, face aching, and let the book fall open to the first page before him.)_

the one that Sam scoured cover-to-cover for months, until he could recite it backwards and forwards from memory. Until it became his second-favorite acquired interest next to astronomy.

All because of Lucifer. 

Sam shifts on his mattress, pain shooting daggers up his back, and Lucifer lights a candle, evidently was waiting for Sam to move. In the moonlit dark his face is lit eerily up from underneath, orange red hellish fire glow under his eyes, making the lines and angles of his face stand out sharp and hollow. Sam can’t tell if Lucifer has lost weight or if it’s just the flames that make him look so on the verge of death.

It’s very quiet for a long time. Sam doesn’t say anything—of course—and Lucifer just. Sits there. Watching him. His fingers twitching absent on his thigh but he isn’t moving any closer, nostrils a little flared. Sam watching him too, exhausted and confused and wanting to touch. Hating himself for it. 

“You do something like that again and I will not be responsible for my actions,” Lucifer says, finally. 

Sam tugs his right arm—the one that isn’t quite as hurt—out from the sheets, so he can talk. Eyes steady and focused solely on Lucifer as he says, _Like what? Like get raped?_

Lucifer physically flinches. He looks impossibly furious. “You know that isn’t what I meant, Sam.”

_Oh, right. So what **did** you mean, then? You meant don’t hurt myself? ‘Cause you think there’s some better way I should be handling this? Because you’ve been doing **so much** to help me these past few days—_

“Do not start with me right now, Sam.” Voice tight, angry as he gets up and crosses the room so he can flick on the gas lamp instead. The one beside Sam’s bed, and Sam thinks he’s going to stay there, that close, but he moves away immediately after. Back to the far wall, but in the fresh full light Sam can see the dark circles under his eyes. The overgrowth of stubble on his cheeks. “You’ve been unconscious. You have no idea what I’ve done for you.”

Thinking of the way he woke up, with Lucifer not even in the room. The feverish moments of lucidity, when the drugs were still gripping him, and Lucifer’s hands had been pressed back as far from Sam as possible. Thinking of all that, Sam dares to say, _Yeah, or if you’ve done anything._

Lucifer’s hand moves at his side, fingers clenching up until it looks like his palm is going to cramp. Like he wants to reach for Sam, but refuses to allow himself, and it _hurts,_ knowing that Lucifer isn’t touching Sam on purpose. Hurts as much as it relieves. Because even though Sam wants

_(loathing himself for it he shouldn’t crave lucifer’s touch really is a whore born and bred no wonder azazel set his eye on you)_

as much as he thinks Lucifer does. Even though he aches for some semblance of comfort, the idea of Lucifer’s hands on him is sort of—terrifying. The idea of letting him close enough to touch; having to watch him in here now, as far away as he is. Moving and breathing and existing and Sam knows that at any second he could snap and be across the room. Pinning Sam down against the mattress palm over his mouth holding him down by his neck choking him as he thrust in— 

_“Sam.”_ Firm voice dragging him up out of his thoughts and Sam physically shudders, full-body thing that has the covers coming undone around him. Until he can sit up, arms wrapped around his legs. Everything so sore, muscles and skin and bones and. Everything. 

“You’re angry with me,” Lucifer says, after a long while. It isn’t a question.

Sam runs his thumb over the fresh bandage on his left arm. Faint smears of blood under the white gauze, and as his hand passes the scar he can feel it tingling, faint pain that makes him want more. Has him trembling as he scrapes just the very edge of his nail along the line of his wound because god if he doesn’t want to sink into it again, damage himself so bad he can’t be repaired. 

As if that hasn’t happened already.

He squeezes in a little, the pain growing in increments, and doesn’t answer. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Lucifer nodding, more to himself than to Sam.

“Because I left?” Lucifer asks, after a while, and Sam grits his teeth.

 _Yes,_ he mumbles, barely moving his hands. At least at first. _Yeah, you dumbass. Because you fucking left me here defenseless and that shit Azazel came and. And he. And you weren’t fucking **here** and I asked you to take me and you said no and now look at where I am._

When he looks up Lucifer is watching him, raw pained expression in his eyes, guilt so intense it hurts to look at. “I,” he starts, and Sam shakes his head.

 _I don’t want your excuses, Lucifer, I want to know._

“What, Sam?”

 _I. You need to tell me._ He takes in a deep breath, looks down. Abaddon and Alastair’s words clanging around in his head. Digs his hand into his scar for a moment, the heat of his skin breaking around him. Drawing strength from it, and he says, _Why did Azazel show up the day you left me alone?_

It’s so quiet, after. So quiet for so long that Sam thinks Lucifer has left. Or that he will just turn and leave. But every time he glances over, Lucifer is still standing there. Staring at him, indiscernible mix of emotions in his eyes, and Sam is too tired and too sore and too drained to figure them all out. 

“You think I set you up?” Lucifer asks, and oh, there’s the topmost emotion. Shivering and cold and tight in Lucifer’s voice, something that hasn’t been directed at Sam in over a year. So that he’d forgotten how it feels, or nearly, to be on that tone’s receiving end, and Sam has never been afraid of Lucifer before but it’s a close call right now. Sitting here in near-darkness with his sheets around his ankles and his body bleeding out in invisible line. Lucifer glaring at him in slow-smoldering disgust in the grainy moonlight and flickering flames. “You think I would do that to you?”

Sam moves his hand to his hip, where there’s a bigger, darker bruise to worry his fingers over. Doesn’t answer, and after a few seconds Lucifer nods again, mouth pinched at the corners. Shoves away from the wall and moves towards the bed, so that Sam flinches back on instinct. 

_“I’m_ the one who sent you away to keep you safe,” he snarls. “I spent time and money on keeping you as far away from here as I possibly could and what did _you_ do but come crawling back to me—” His fists clenched hard at his sides, this hard pain dancing just out of reach on his face. Though he makes obvious attempts at shoving it back when Sam looks at him. “I told you why I sent you away. Keeping you out of the line of fire, keeping you away from Azazel—that’s all I wanted. I told you he would do _anything_ to get his fucking hands on you and you deliberately come back to the one place you knew he’d be.” He scoffs, scratching at the back of his neck. Staring at the ceiling. “You can’t sit there and complain that he found you when you’re the one who put yourself in danger after I busted my own ass trying to get you _out_ of it—” 

_Oh,_ Sam says, _right. I forgot. So it’s all about you now. You making yourself feel better, less responsible for the fact that I got fucked in the ass with a fucking **knife** , shoving all of it on me so you don’t look like the bad guy—_

Lucifer says, “You honestly believe I’d call Azazel in here—after _everything_ —” and Sam says:

 _You love getting fast fucks for value, Lucifer._

It’s quiet for a moment, after. Both of them just staring at each other, Sam’s fingers clenched tight around his thighs. Feeling sick and dizzy and rubbing at his scar with his thumb. Starts to raise one hand, to apologize, but then. Then Lucifer laughs, cold and dry and mirthless. Nothing in his expression as he turns off the gas lamp and steps back, outlined again in candlelight and the moon. 

“You think I’d waste my energy on fucking you when you’re this useless,” he says. “Honestly, Sam.” Snorts, moves to the door. “You think I’d waste my energy on setting you up with Azazel when all he ever did was complain that you were too much of a tease for his taste. That he’d rather break you than fuck you willingly.” Hand on the knob, crack of light from the main area shining in, and Lucifer blows out the candle. “No one wants damaged goods, darling,” he says, and then he’s gone. 


	19. Chapter 19

Lucifer collapses against the wall just outside Sam’s room. Head slamming back so hard against the plaster it rockets stars behind his eyes, makes his vision gray out for a second. Which, honestly, is so much less than what he deserves. For saying that to his boy, to his Sam, the most. The most important person in his. The only one who.

 _It’s better this way,_ Lucifer tells himself, digging his nails into a bare patch of skin just below his elbow, almost exactly the same place as where Sam’s ruptured scar lies on his arm. It’s better this way because Sam. Sam hates him anyway. Must have noticed the way Lucifer’s been avoiding touching him; Sam isn’t stupid, but then neither is Lucifer. He knows what getting close to Sam could do to him, right now. What it already has, judging from Sam’s reaction in the hospital. When Lucifer had tried reaching for his boy, wanted to hold him in his arms. Reassure himself that Sam was alive, and reassure Sam that Lucifer was there, but Sam had. The expression on his face—

_(like he didn’t recognize him like he thought lucifer was azazel)_

So he hasn’t touched Sam since. Terrified of what he could do to Sam, however accidental. Of breaking their relationship completely, and Lucifer knows it’s better to keep his distance. To avoid putting Sam through any more physical pain, even at the cost of Sam loathing him for it. 

And Lucifer knows he does. He had seen it in his eyes, seen it 

_(“Why did Azazel show up the day you left me alone?”)_

in Sam’s hands, as he spoke. So quiet, so tightly wound with barely repressed fury

_(and who the fuck taught him how to repress everything)_

all of it aimed solely at Lucifer. In a way it had never been before, not even when Sam was twelve and had an excuse to hate Lucifer with every fiber of his being. His whole life uprooted so many times, too many, for a child that young. Not even over the last few months, since Sam’s been home from Michael’s and getting more and more vocally irritated every time Lucifer told him _no,_ said _you aren’t ready yet._

_(“Are you sure Sam will understand that your—hmm, **remarkably** coincidental absence during both of these times is **only** coincidence?”)_

All these years. All this time spent here, Sam’s only been looking for an excuse to despise Lucifer again. Even after everything Lucifer has done for him. The books and the clothes and the reprieve from sex, all the years he allowed Sam to continue only waiting tables, dancing. Long after most of the other children in his age class were hosting politicians and kings in their rooms— 

It doesn’t matter. Sam thinks Lucifer planned his rape out with Azazel. Sam will never forgive Lucifer for this, and Lucifer will never forgive himself, and it will be fine. Sam can thrive on his anger at and hatred of Lucifer now, can replay his words

_(no one wants damaged goods, darling)_

over and over in his head until they’re stuck, until they bleed through every second of Sam’s days

_(and god you’d know how that feels wouldn’t you)_

and Sam leaves again of his own accord, goes back to Michael’s. Where he’ll be pampered and fall into a life of debasing luxury, but at least he’ll be safe from people like Lucifer. No one over there will want to hurt Sam. No one will care enough to try.

Lucifer hears a low, broken moan from inside Sam’s room, the sound hitching, cracking along its edges, but he forces himself to ignore it. To turn and shove off the wall, head down the stairs. Down into the parlor, where there’s alcohol and music and hookers waiting to be fucked. Lilith with her long sharp nails and Abaddon with her devil’s smile and countless others, dirty filthy whores, all that Lucifer deserves.

It’s better this way. 

~

Sam doesn’t cry himself to sleep. 

He lets there be tears for five minutes. Times himself on the clock hanging from his wall, ticking so loud tonight, every movement of the second hand jerking and echoing in his mind. Staring blankly at the wall with the tears pouring down his face in total silence. Can’t even think about what Lucifer said 

_(damaged goods)_

right now, because if he does

_(no one wants damaged goods)_

he thinks he’ll go crazy. Thinks he’ll do something

_(darling)_

irrational, something he can’t afford

_(waste my energy on fucking you)_

right now. Even if Lucifer was telling the truth, saying

_(when you’re this useless)_

what Sam himself has been thinking now for a long, long time. Over a year, actually, ever since

_(he’d rather break you than fuck you willingly)_

the first time Azazel raped him, so long ago now Sam half feels like it happened 

_(no one wants damaged goods darling)_

to someone else.

He isn’t stupid. He knows how far gone he is. How ruined. Wrecked for anyone, even

_(especially)_

Lucifer. Useless. Waste of space. 

Sam presses in on his arm wound, digging and squeezing and pinching the flesh until it burns. Until it’s seared into him, part of him, almost as sharp as the space between his legs. The pain blisters into his brain, firing off synapses, clearing his vision. His whole body juddering with it, and suddenly he can see, astonishingly calm, exactly what it is he has to do. 

He reaches up and wipes at his eyes the second the five-minute mark is up. Lays back against his sheets, rubbing over the sore spot on his bleeding skin. Feeling a raw, phantom ache on his face, in his chest. Can’t tell if it’s his ribs or something within, but soon enough it won’t matter. 

Sam closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. Doesn’t sleep for the whole night, but it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. 

It’ll be better, this way. 

~

In the morning, Sam heads down to the kitchen when he knows the brothel will still be relatively empty. Only the customers who stayed the whole night are still there at this hour. Fucked raw and passed out in the rooms of prostitutes that get paid enough to put up with it, so that Sam’s able to slip past closed doors easy enough. Ignoring the reek of sex, the dank musky feel to the air. 

Ruby is asleep in the parlor, draped over one of the couches with her leg propped up at an awkward angle, her hair drifting soft over one bare shoulder. She’s almost five years older than Sam but she looks strangely vulnerable like that, breathing deep, slow, little marks sucked into her neck and scattered across her collarbones, and Sam walks over. Lifts the crushed velvet comforter from where it’s been cast to the floor and drapes it over Ruby’s body, hoping that she didn’t fuck her client on the couch—the fabric is a bitch to clean—before he heads to his intended destination. 

The kitchen is deserted. Spotless, because Inias takes pride in maintaining a clean environment, but it’s totally empty, and Sam doesn’t hesitate before moving to the chopping block. Where they keep the meat cleavers. The steak knives. Big shiny things that Sam couldn’t even lift when he was twelve, but he’s had years of muscle building from dancing and it’s effortless for him to take one out now. To just draw it forth from the block and let it lay flat and cool and unfamiliar in his hand for a moment. Testing the weight, the heft of its handle, its blade. Silver glinting in the early morning light coming through the window, edge so sharp Sam winces when he looks at it directly. 

He curves his fingers around the handle, scarred and worn from years of use, and he allows a very small smile to grace his features as his whole hand encompasses its width.

This one will do just fine.

By the time he sees Lucifer, the knife is hidden, shoved into a place he’s positive Lucifer won’t look. Not now that he’s disgusted by Sam, repulsed by his very presence. Not now that Sam means nothing to Lucifer, the last five years—well, technically, four and a half, considering Sam’s missing year at Michael’s—erased and gone in one 

_(no one wants damaged goods, darling)_

sentence. 

Not now that Lucifer isn’t going to give a shit about Sam at all, in any respects, for the rest of his goddamn life.

“Sam,” Lucifer says, drawing up short in the hall. His whole body tense and flushed, eyes wide. Features drawn, something white smeared against the corner of his mouth, red marks all along the line of his jaw, and Sam closes his eyes. Deep breath. Thinks, _it doesn’t matter._

_Hi, Lucifer,_ he says, throat jerking reflexively at the stench of sex coming off Lucifer’s skin, but 

_(who was he with last night who was he buried in who did he use to forget you this time)_

it doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.

“Sam,” Lucifer says again, sounding a little bit like that might be the only word he knows anymore. “About last night. I—”

 _Don’t,_ Sam interrupts, waving his hand. _It’s okay. I’m not mad._

Lucifer frowns with his whole face, head tilted. “What?”

Sam forces a smile to twitch the corners of his mouth. _It’s not like I haven’t been thinking the same exact thing about myself for months now, anyway,_ he says, and, _Everyone says dumb shit sometimes, Lucifer. It’s okay. Really._ Can’t really decide if he wants Lucifer to buy it or not, but Lucifer just nods, shoulders slumping forward. There’s no relief on his face, something stark and raw instead that Sam can’t read, but all he says is:

“Well. I am sorry, anyway, Sam.”

 _I know you are,_ Sam tells him, running one finger down his ripped-up scar, and then, _Think I’m gonna go back to bed._

There’s a pause. Something low and simmering crackling in the air between them, and the intensity of it makes Sam back up a step. His legs shaking again, unused to all this activity. 

“I was just coming down for breakfast, if you wanted—” Lucifer starts.

It isn’t even necessarily the thought of eating with Lucifer that makes Sam’s stomach jerk. It’s the thought of _eating,_ period, the idea of cramming food into the same throat that took

_(“you like the taste of my cock boy yeah of course you do so good at eating dick aren’t you can feel the back of your throat sam fuck—”)_

so much damage, only three days ago. Of having it sit on his stomach where it doesn’t belong. Where nothing belongs, with Sam as toxic as he is.

He says, _I just ate, actually,_ and when Lucifer just looks at him—and isn’t that the absolute fucking funniest thing, Lucifer catching onto _that_ lie, but not—Sam sighs. Rolls his eyes for effect.

 _I woke up hungry,_ he says. _I had an apple and some pancakes and I cleaned up so Inias wouldn’t have to later. I swear, Luce._

“Okay,” Lucifer says, after a long, long minute. Rubbing at the back of his neck, and then he breathes out. Turns away from Sam. 

“Goodnight,” he tells him, even though they can both hear the birds chirping through the window, and Sam slips back upstairs on trembling legs.

~

**_Week one._ **

The stitches come off Sam’s arm and his cheek, where the damage was worst—outwardly, anyway. Inside everything still burns, his chest aches if he breathes in too deep and his ass hurts if he sits a certain way—or even if he doesn’t sit at all—but Sam doesn’t complain. Sits quiet as Alastair picks the stitches out with his little metallic tools, breathing fast through his nostrils when Alastair leans in too close to his face. Tries not to throw up all over everything, his stomach heaving at the proximity of that face so close to his those hands touching his jaw thumb skating down the line of his scar as hot breath wafts over his ear talking in lisping syllables about Sam’s injuries healing themselves—

“That’s enough, Alastair. I’m sure Sam understands just fine how to take care of himself,” Lucifer says from the doorway, where he’s been standing for however long since Sam zoned out. He’s focused on a specific point on the wall rather than looking directly at Sam, and Sam can’t decide if he wants to be grateful for the interruption or terrified of the tone in Lucifer’s voice. Resentful, underneath everything, of the way he’s ignoring him, even now.

Alastair straightens up, adjusts his lapels. He’s kind of smirking. “I’m sure he does,” he says. “And if he forgets I have no doubts you’ll _remind_ him—”

“I’d like to remind _you,”_ Lucifer interrupts, smooth as anything, “that you work here. I pay you to live here with the rest of my whores and you take care of what needs to be taken care of, and you keep your mouth _shut._ I’d like to remind you how easily I could let you go, and ensure you would never find another job as a doctor, in this city or anywhere else—” 

Alastair backs up, hands raised, amused expression flashing in his eyes as Sam scrambles out of the chair, his heart racing. Noticing as he moves that Lucifer’s gaze cuts over to him. Involuntary sharp movement, though once their eyes make contact Lucifer seems unable to look away. 

“Of course,” Alastair says. Laughing. “My apologies.” 

But Lucifer’s eyes are only on Sam, strained. Barely concealed longing shining obvious through a thin veneer of forced neutrality, and Sam has to fight hard not to react. 

“Let’s go,” Lucifer says. As if they came down here together, as if Sam hasn’t spent the past seven days avoiding Lucifer as much as he can, and Sam nods once. Brushes past Lucifer, his arm and face tingling, and his thoughts are only on that knife upstairs.


	20. Chapter 20

**_Week two._ **

Sam doesn’t sleep anymore. 

At least, not in the regular way that most people would consider sleeping. He lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling for six hours, watching the shadows of the moon shift over the walls. Finally drifts off into a fitful half-sleep brought on mostly by his burning eyelids and worn brain, and is immediately torn apart by images

_(bent apart legs spread broken into yellow teeth sinking into flesh rusting serrated laughter echoing in his ears)_

crowding his brain, violating every inch of him. So that every few seconds he shoots straight up in bed, gasping, covered in sweat, nauseous down into the core of himself. Shuddering and grinding his teeth, hand pressed down between his legs like he thinks he can protect himself now, after everything. 

_(The first few times it happens he hears Lucifer knocking on the door. Standing right outside and calling Sam’s name, but Sam won’t let him in. **Can’t** let him in, shaking so violently on his mattress. Bitter taste always at the back of his throat, the way it was before, and Sam can’t get the words ‘damaged goods’ to stop banging around in his head. Not even when he’s so shaken up he’s crying, vision washed over and the sheets soaked in tears and sweat, and after a while, Lucifer stops coming.)_

He slides his whole body off the bed when sleep becomes an option that is evidently no longer available—usually around hour nine—and slips his hand between his bed frame and the wall that joins his room to Lucifer’s. Where the knife is hidden, propped up against the baseboards, glinting soft and familiar. Almost comforting. _Hello, Sam,_ it says, when Sam takes it out and holds it in his lap in the murky pre-dawn light. _I’m waiting for you. I’m right here._

And he practices, too. When he isn’t sleeping. There’s nothing else to do anyway, no one comes anywhere near the suite, and Sam likes to slip into the bathroom with his skin still warm from the covers. Where he can easily wash away smells and stains and avoid any sort of suspicion. Practicing what he’ll need for later, just running small lines down where no one else will see. Wants to split open the scar on his arm, but that would be too obvious, and anyway there’s plenty of time for it later. For now, he sticks just to his stomach, his inner thighs. Careful to keep within the confines of what he remembers as the waiter’s outfits, the dancing costumes. In case he does start servicing at meals again, in either respect. Knowing their outfits are too tight, too long in the torso, to reveal something like this. 

Lucifer is watching him. Sam can feel his eyes on him every time they’re in a room together. Knows how odd it must look, that he told Lucifer he wasn’t angry but refuses to speak to him now, but he can only muster up enough energy to care about one thing at a time, these days. Feels like he’s being dragged through thick water by the ends of his hair, smell of blood always in his nostrils, even after he’s washed it all off in the shower. Bits of it dripping down his thighs when he stands up. 

He wishes his knife would slip and just. Chop away the offending parts of himself, so close to his thighs, but there’s nothing that will unsteady his hand. Nothing that will convince his knife to betray him before he tells it to. 

Lucifer watches, and Sam ignores. Slips through the brothel feeling increasingly like he’s living in a dream world, like none of this is tangible. Wandering around the halls with no real destination in mind, and now that Azazel’s dead Lucifer’s stopped caring whether Sam’s alone in the building or not. So he walks around during the day, only slipping back upstairs in the evenings when the clients start showing up. Gets his knife out and cuts, dry-eyed, and he waits. 

If there’s one thing Lucifer’s taught him here, it’s patience. He supposes he sort of has Azazel to thank for that.


	21. Chapter 21

**_Week three._**

“You should eat something, Sam.”

Sam startles. He’s curled up on the couch in the parlor, soft duvet from upstairs flung haphazard over his shoulders. Some dog-eared book open in his lap, pages gone yellow with age, and he’s been reading the same sentence for the past ten minutes. His focus drifting in and out, stomach a little sore with how hungry he is but he’s so used to it now he barely notices. 

Lucifer’s come up out of nowhere—although in retrospect Sam supposes he could’ve been standing in the doorway of the parlor for ten minutes and Sam wouldn’t have noticed. He’s kind of hovering, maybe a foot from Sam’s legs. Just on the borderline of too close, and part of Sam wants to make him leave, but another, more insistent part of him wants to set the book down and tell him _fuck you, come closer._

_I ate lunch an hour ago,_ Sam tells him, absent. Distracted. Lying about food is something he’s been doing for a while now, so he’s not even looking up. Doesn’t see the quiet, tense expression pass over Lucifer’s face. The way his mouth goes thin, crimped and white at the edges.

“Did Inias cook for you?” Lucifer asks, after a long minute.

 _No,_ because Sam’s not stupid. _No, I made something._ He does look up, then, and Lucifer’s face is blank. Closed-off. As neutral as Sam’s ever seen it.

“I wish you would wait for me sometimes,” Lucifer says, kind of quiet. “I haven’t eaten with you in a long time, Sam.” 

_I know,_ Sam says. _I’m sorry. I’ve just been busy._

“You’re still angry with me, aren’t you.” Bitter little twist to his mouth, and Sam feels a flare of irritation in his chest at that. Wonders what right Lucifer thinks he has to be upset if Sam’s mad at him, but:

 _No!_ Sam says, maybe too fast, except he doesn’t have the energy to care. Exhausted from

_(nightmares blood dripping from ripped apart cocks come filling his mouth bitter and strong and tasting like so much sin and death)_

lack of sleep recently, and the fact that he hasn’t eaten since sometimes two days ago, when he managed to force down half an apple before he felt so sick he had to go lie down. The cold blade of the knife pressed against the flat of his stomach, fingers clenched around the handle. Gripping so tight it hurt his knuckles, struggling to ground himself with the only thing he’s certain of anymore. 

Lucifer sighs, very soft. “Sam,” he starts, and Sam can see it in his eyes. His want to talk about what happened, what he said

_(no one wants damaged goods, darling)_

that night. As if it hasn’t been clanging around in Sam’s mind every waking second for the past three weeks. Wants to discuss it, because they haven’t yet, and Sam. Sam can’t handle that. Not now. Not when he knows. Not when.

So he shakes his head. Stands up, the duvet crumpling to the floor around him, his book falling to the wayside with a soft muffled _thump,_ and he’s trying so hard to keep his hand from shaking. Desperate for Lucifer not to see what little control he has left over his own body as he reaches up to. To pat Lucifer on the arm. To _touch_ him, to have his skin on someone else’s for the first time since. Sends revulsion rocketing up his spine burning shocking shame splintering along his forearm 

_(shouldn’t be touching not after what you did to him had another man’s cock in your mouth you little whore)_

and he forces his hand to stay still for a second against the soft skin of Lucifer’s arm. Forces his nausea back staring at his fingers curled around the pale skin lightly dusted with hair— 

“Sam?” Lucifer murmurs, more of a question now, and Sam jerks back, burned. Shivering. Can’t meet Lucifer’s eyes, because he’s sure what he’ll see there will be disgust. And unhappiness. And as much revulsion as Sam is feeling right now curdling in his stomach.

 _I’m fine,_ Sam says again, and, _I’m kinda tired, though. Think I’m just gonna go take a nap. Okay?_

Doesn’t wait for what he knows will be an acquiescing nod before he goes, leaving his blanket and his book behind. Straight up to his room where there’s nothing but closed-in air, and he doesn’t wait before he’s grabbing for the knife. Rushing into the bathroom, locking the door. Down to his knees on the tile and he’s wrenching up his shirt, pulling the blade across the thin strip of skin between his bellybutton and his cock, nothing deep, just a scratch. Barely even draws blood, but the pain arcs around his hips anyway, and he shivers with it. Thinks he feels a faint twinge in his dick as he wipes the knife down, straightens his shirt. Goes back into his room and puts the knife away, his wound warm and tingling under the fabric of his clothes. 

~

_(Lucifer stands for long minutes afterwards in the parlor. His arm tingling hot from Sam’s touch, every nerve ending on fire. Shivering and loathing himself for how much he wanted to just. Grab Sam, pull him in. Kiss him without thinking, without caring about the consequences. Lay his claim on Sam again, prove to both of them that Sam is still **his** , his and not Azazel’s, and it was only that thread of possession that stayed Lucifer’s hand. The idea that he might be just as bad as Azazel, and he’d stood stiff, shocked and abhorrent of his own thoughts. Furious with his body for even attempting to betray him, to betray them both, which is why he didn’t notice how hard Sam was keeping himself from trembling. How thin he’s gotten, since he was raped, and the heavy dark circles growing under his sad eyes.)_


	22. Chapter 22

**_Week four._ **

He’s lost enough weight by now that people are noticing. Ruby corners him one day, when they happen to pass each other in the hall. Drags him aside, her dark eyes flashing, and she says: 

“Hey. What the fuck is going on with you, Sam? You’re so thin Lucifer’s blaming Inias. Keeps saying he’s gonna fire him for not feeding you enough. Or. Y’know. Whatever.”

Sam glares at her. Annoyed because he still has to use the tablet with her, with everyone here who isn’t Lucifer. Not that it really matters, since Sam doesn’t exactly make a habit of conversing with these people, but it’s still a pain in the ass. Especially recently, with his hands cramping up faster, joints getting achy and tired. 

He writes, _You could always just fuck off and mind your own business, you know._

“Oh, whoa,” Ruby says, sarcastic, rolling her eyes. “Excuse me. Wouldn’t want to offend the kid who can’t even fucking _talk_ —”

“That’s _enough,_ Ruby.”

It’s Lucifer. It’s always Lucifer. Coming in the room from the other side, so that Sam will be aware of him the whole time, and Sam drops his tablet and his pen and digs his fingers into his hip. Where there are three brand-new slashes from this morning, clawed in over a massive dark bruise he gave himself sometime last week when he accidentally banged into a doorway. 

Sam’s bruising a lot easier, these days.

Ruby goes stiff. Blushes, stepping back. “Sorry, sir,” she mumbles.

He wraps an arm, briefly, around her waist. All possession and power and only Sam can see the indifference in his eyes. How little he cares about her. About any of this. 

“Why don’t you go fix some drinks for yourself and your client,” Lucifer murmurs into the silken soft crush of her hair, and Ruby nods. Smile pasted on as she edges past Sam and around the corner.

Lucifer says, “Sam, I need to talk to you,” and Sam shakes his head, fast enough to make spots appear behind his eyes. He can feel an itch starting up in his stomach, along the insides of his thighs. 

_I don’t have time right now—_

“You’ve been deliberately avoiding me for the past four weeks.” Lucifer’s eyes are hard on Sam’s, nostrils flared slightly. No indication that he’s going to let up, and Sam exhales.

 _You’re really getting good at sign language,_ he tries, stiff. Lucifer smirks, no amusement in his eyes. The edges of his face tight, tense with barely repressed anger. With frustration at the annoying kid standing before him, the broken child Lucifer had the misfortune to take on— 

_(no one wants damaged goods, darling)_

“I’ve been studying alone,” Lucifer tells him. Flash of something pained in his eyes, and Sam has to look away. “No Sam to teach me.” His hand twitches, like he wants to touch, and Sam takes a reflexive step backwards. Even if he knows good and damn well Lucifer isn’t interested in touching him right now, when he’s

_(damaged goods)_

still recovering.

A shadow darkens Lucifer’s eyes, there and gone again in an instant. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asks, voice taut. Gaze steady on Sam’s, and he knows Lucifer isn’t referring to the fact that Sam won’t allow them to touch. Especially since it’s been Lucifer’s idea from the beginning.

Sam drags his hand up his hip, feeling pain spiking low under the rough pads of his fingers. _I’ve been busy,_ he says. Rote line, so overused it hurts Sam’s fingers to spell it out. _I said I was sorry. Jesus Christ. You told me I could take all the time I needed after Azazel—_

Which is really only half true, because Lucifer only told him that the first time, and that was over a year ago, but Sam knows pulling the Azazel card will break the conversation in half. Better at playing up Lucifer’s guilt than he thinks he should be, and sure enough. Lucifer stops, takes a step back. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispers, after a long time. The words sound loaded, weighted down with more than just an apology for Sam’s second rape, but Sam is tired and hungry and he can’t focus on dissecting Lucifer’s voice right now, so he just says:

 _Yeah. I know. I am too._

And then, _Can I have dinner with you tonight? After the guests are occupied?_

Something relieved flickers across Lucifer’s face. “Sure, Sam,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

Sam forces a smile on his face. Makes it stay there until Lucifer has turned and left, and doesn’t mention, even to himself, how he plans on getting through something like a massive meal with someone who’s going to watch his eating like a hawk.


	23. Chapter 23

**_Week six._**

Sam’s body is running on empty. So to speak. Nothing quite functioning the way it should be, his skin feeling like it’s going to slide off his bones if he touches it. His cock hanging limp and useless between his scarred thighs, lungs drawing in each breath as slow and ragged as possible. He can feel his heart lurch every time he has to move. Brain not really firing on all synapses properly, and sometimes Sam sits in his room. Stares out the window and thinks how it won’t be long now. Won’t be long at all. 

The worst part is Lucifer. Sam avoids him. Ignores him. Keeps himself locked up in his room all day so he won’t have to see him. Only in the first couple of weeks did Lucifer make some semblance of an effort to try and communicate with Sam, and they had dinner together that one time—though Sam didn’t let it have any real lasting effects on his body—but other than that. Other than that, Lucifer is ignoring Sam, too. Almost as if he really meant 

_(no one wants damaged goods, darling)_

what he said, that night. As if he can’t stand the sight of Sam. As if he’s trying to. Trying to sell Sam back to Michael.

_(itdoesn’tfuckingmatter)_

Sam can feel his insides collapsing on themselves. Knows he can’t go on much longer in this state, with no food and no sleep and so much blood lost every day. Thinks he can feel his body growing lighter, swears he can see his weight dropping, sees blood crusted under his fingernails even when he’s scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin’s gone raw with scouring. 

Sam doesn’t sleep anymore, but one night he dreams.

 _(Lucifer standing over Sam in an arena. Whole crowd of people watching, leaning forward in their seats. Eyes hungry and wanting, low primal roar escaping their throats as they wait to be satiated. Wait for what they paid to watch._

_Sam naked, bound to a wooden plank, his arms and legs tied together with thick, unforgiving rope. Thrashing around but it’s just for show, his eyes are only on the whip Lucifer’s holding in his hand. The burn in his ass starting up but it’s from the wood below his bare skin._

_“Let me go,” he snarls, glaring up at Lucifer. Who flicks his gaze to someone Sam can’t see, and a second later Sam is being blindfolded. So that all his senses redirect themselves to his cock. His hands. His nose._

_Lucifer’s body is a furnace-hot presence above Sam. Every molecule in both their bodies straining for each other. Sam can feel Lucifer leaning over him long before he drops down, the full heavy length of him pressed up against Sam’s, his body strong and tense and he grinds down, and Sam gasps._

_“You don’t give the orders here,” Lucifer whispers, and he stands up. Sam whining at the loss, making the crowd laugh. Poor puppy. Poor stupid child._

_Sam feels something graze his shaking chest. Something cold and hard and his mind remembers the whip a second before it comes sailing out of the air, landing with a sharp blow on his stomach._

_Pow, the whip hisses, and Sam screams, writhing. The audience screams too, raw and hungry. Sam can taste the musk coming off their cocks, their cunts. Can feel the salt and the heat in the air, and he twists away but the whip hits him again. Smacks right in the center of his chest, and Sam can feel a livid bruise starting up, blood streaming warm and hot down his clavicle, but he also feels. He feels._

_The blindfold comes off and it’s Azazel leering down at him, hissing, “Oh, Sammy boy, isn’t this **fun** ,” and Sam—)_

—wakes up. Gasping and soaked in sweat, his stomach churning, so that he barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s puking, the scorching taste of stomach acid ripping up his throat because there’s nothing in his stomach to get rid of. 

After, he collapses on the bathroom floor. Crying, though he’s hardly aware of that, one hand loosely cupping his cock. The other gripping his hip in an effort to stay upright. There’s a fresh bruise on his skin, violet and dark, and Sam squeezes it experimentally. Flashes of 

_(the whip sailing the sting on his flesh)_

the dream come to him, piece by piece, and Sam is shocked when a vague, warm feeling begins to stir low in his gut. Sam’s memory focused on that dream, on Lucifer’s face and the bitter sour taste in his mouth when he’d turned into Azazel. Sam remembering

_(“i know you like pain boy i know you do you can’t fuck lucifer and not want to get hurt ‘till you’re almost dead”)_

bits and pieces of the orchard, and his cock is. Certainly not hard, or even halfway, but more interested than it has been in months. Despite his horror at what he’s getting there over, remembering in fast succession both what Azazel did to him and the way Lucifer used to hurt him, before everything changed between them.

He moans. Sinks back against the tub, is almost sick again. Can’t stop the memories from coming now

_(Sam at twelve, his face struck by Lucifer’s fist for talking back; Sam at thirteen, head knocked back against the wall, neck choked by Lucifer’s hands; Sam at fourteen, lube shoved into his palm by smirking eyes, Sam gasping at the rough grab at his crotch seconds later, the whispered admission: ‘wish I could stick around and watch you use this’)_

and he knows, he’s always known, he has a thing for pain. It’s been like this for years, Lucifer’s fault in the way that everything is Lucifer’s fault, and Sam bites his palm until he draws blood. Thinking about how that, too, was sacred for them. How Azazel just—took it, as if he thought it was his to claim.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against his arm, his shoulders shaking, and wishes he could forget all of this.

~

_(Outside the bathroom door, Lucifer stands hesitant. His knuckles brushing the wood, wanting to knock. To go in and comfort Sam, feeling his sobs as if they were Lucifer’s own. His chest clenching up and he grips the door handle until his knuckles turn white, gritting his teeth. ‘Sam,’ he thinks. ‘Sam, I’m so. Oh, please—’_

_But it’s been weeks since Sam would even look him in the eye, and Lucifer knows Sam’s curled up on the bathroom floor right now because of his blind stupidity. Knows Sam would kill him soon as speak to him, right now, and after a few minutes he manages to relax his fingers. Steps away from the door, and doesn’t look back when he walks away.)_


	24. Chapter 24

**_Week eight._ **

There’s a party being thrown at the brothel, a celebration of fifty years running or something, and Sam wants to stay holed up in his room all night. Just—let the evening waste away, as all his evenings have done for a long time now, but. This is sort of the perfect opportunity to. To do what he needs to. So he decides to suck it up and go. The lesser of two evils.

The whole thing kinda shakes him up a little, the idea of having to be near 

_(all the food)_

that many people, all of them pressed in and closing around him, bodies hot and sweaty and confining and _too much god this is too much get off get off GET OFF—_

But he knows he has to go. Knows if he doesn’t Lucifer will just get worried—as if he has the right to act like he cares, now, after all this time—and Sam doesn’t have the energy to make up excuses as to why he’s so tired all the time. Doesn’t have the energy to. To do anything except this one last thing. One last time. 

The night before, Lucifer comes up to their suite, finds Sam curled up on the sofa in the main area. Soft sounds of music and laughter drifting up the stairs as he leans in the half-open doorway, his head tilted a little to the right, and Lucifer says, “You don’t have to come. If you don’t want to.”

Sam shakes his head from where it’s pressed against the back of the cushions. _I’m gonna go,_ he says, and shivers a little. He’s cold almost all the time, these days. Not like when Lucifer would touch him, before, the chill of his hands comforting. Just— _cold._ His bones ache a lot. It hurts to walk, sometimes. 

_It doesn’t fucking matter,_ Sam thinks, the way he has been for eight weeks now.

“Are you sure?”

Lucifer’s watching him so careful, so cautious. Sam’s scared that he knows, mind flicking automatically to the knife, but:

 _I’m positive,_ he says, and smiles. It feels like his face is being stretched beyond its capacity, but Lucifer just nods once, kinda sharp. Turns away. He hasn’t come close to Sam, close enough to touch, since that day Sam had a hand on his arm. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says.

~

In the morning, Sam dresses alone. Fingers folding over each other as he ties his tie, snaps up the buttons on his shirt. Combs his hand through his hair in an effort to smooth out the tangles, and winces a little at how tight he has to tug his belt in order to get his pants to stay on his hips. The edges of his waistband cutting into the scars scattered along his stomach, and he presses in a little with his thumb, smiling at the sensation.

His knife is perched and waiting when he goes to it, snapping open the bottom buttons on his shirt as he moves to the bathroom. Slashing a line clean down from his sternum to his quivering stomach, kinda whimpering at the feel of the cold blade in his hot skin, the blood dripping down his skin. It doesn’t really matter—won’t matter, after tonight, where his scars lie, because after tonight. 

Well. After tonight, Sam will have taken care of a lot of things. 

Then he cleans his knife as usual, sets it under his covers. _I’ll be waiting for you tonight,_ it whispers to him, like a lover, and Sam feels a pleasant shiver run down his spine at the idea of finally fully consummating their relationship. Like all these weeks of cuts and scrapes have just been foreplay and now there’s going to be real fucking. The best sex Sam will ever have.

By the time Lucifer comes upstairs, Sam has cleaned himself off and is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his feet. Trembling and cramping up from hunger but when Lucifer calls his name from the doorway Sam just stands, goes to him without flinching. Mind clear. Expression as blank as Lucifer’s.

It’s amazing, Sam thinks, what he can make himself go through once he has a final destination in mind. 

~

He gets drunk. First time touching alcohol in a long time, and with the emptiness of three days of no food sitting heavy on his stomach, it just goes straight through him. So that Sam starts drinking with everyone at five, is completely drunk by six. Holding the champagne glass precariously balanced between his thumb and forefinger by its stem, and he’s not even aware that he’s leaning against a table for balance until it wobbles underneath him, a leg slightly off-kilter. 

Lucifer has been standing beside him all afternoon. Deflecting unwanted clients from touching Sam

(You realize I’m not even under contract with you anymore, they can do what they want, _Sam says to him at one point. Already well on his way to being drunk, and he regrets it as soon as it’s signed but Lucifer just turns away. The lines around his mouth going tight, eyes shutting for a moment, and he says:_

_“Don’t make this evening more unpleasant than it has to be, Sam.”)_

especially the newer ones. The ones who don’t know that Sam’s always only ever been Lucifer’s. The ones stupid enough to try and get their hands on him

 _(“Well, ain’t you a fine piece.” Fat, pudgy hand reaching outstretched to touch Sam’s skin, and when he flinches back, there’s a frown._

_“Whores do what they’re told—” words echoing in another voice in the back of Sam’s head, but Lucifer is already stepping half in front of him, staring the man down with such cold hatred in his eyes. Sam can feel it viscerally, snapping through him like ice._

_“You won’t touch what belongs to me,” Lucifer snarls, “do you understand?” and the man skitters off, sweat gleaming on his bald head.)_

reminding him that here, he’s just another decorative piece. That here, none of them know that he’s torn up and irreparably broken on the inside. 

Damaged goods. As per the course.

So Sam’s been drinking, but when he nearly knocks the plateful of shrimp appetizers off its stand, Lucifer reaches out and tugs the champagne glass from his shaking hand. 

“Okay, Sam, I think that’s enough—”

 _No. Gimme._

Sam discovers that he signs sloppy when he’s drunk, his hands having trouble coordinating themselves with the words in his brain, and he kind of stumbles forward. Until those same hands are clutching Lucifer’s arms, the feeling shocking straight through him, and he forgets for a second why it’s a Very Bad Idea to touch Lucifer. Like. Ever. 

A few people are watching them. Sam can feel their eyes burning into his skin, setting fire to his clothes. His hands fly off Lucifer’s arms. Move automatically to his stomach, pressing in, feeling the ridges of scar tissue under the thin material of his shirt. His vision’s gone double from the drink. He can barely even focus on whatever it was he had originally planned for—

Lucifer is _close._ Not as close as he used to get, and the whole illusion is ruined by the warning bells starting up in the small part of Sam’s brain that isn’t intoxicated. But even as his legs are trying to propel him backwards Sam finds himself moving forward, stumbling again. Lucifer catching him by his elbow, and Sam just stares at him for a second. Drinking in his features, first time in weeks he’s been close enough to actually _look,_ and he’s too drunk to even really _see_ him. 

Then Lucifer says, “Come with me, Sam,” sounding drained, a little bit worn thin at the edges, and he half-leads Sam out of the parlor. Up the stairs and into Sam’s room, and once Sam is stretched out on his own bed, Lucifer turns to go. 

Sam has to slam the flat of his hand against the wall to get his attention. His world swirling around him, but he makes himself focus long enough to stare at Lucifer, hovering in the doorway.

 _Don’t leave,_ Sam signs at him. _Don’t leave again. Please._

“Sam.” Lucifer exhales. “You can’t ask me to stay.”

 _Oh._ Sam snorts, harsh kind of caustic exhale through his nose. His hands shaking, stumbling over the words. _‘course not. Y’ don’t even know what that means do you—_

“Sam.” Voice sharper than Sam’s heard it in a while, flirting with anger. Or at least annoyance. Something. It’s kind of hard to differentiate between human emotions when you’re drunk and starving. “You aren’t going to talk to me like that.”

 _Yeah?_ Sam pulls his exhausted mouth up into a grin, taunting and cruel and hard-edged, because what the hell. What does he have to lose. All of this barreling towards the final destination, and Sam can hardly believe how well his plan has worked out. _You g’na do something about it, Luce? ‘cause you don’t really do. Y’ don’t—_ pauses, frowning. _Don’t do stuff anymore. Haven’t for a long time now. Kinda pathetic, actually—_

The door slams shut, knocking Sam’s balance off for a long minute. So that it takes effort to focus and realize that Lucifer didn’t shut Sam out, he’s shut himself in. Standing just at the foot of Sam’s bed, fists clenched at his sides, and Sam’s stomach pitches and roils at the sight of someone so close but god, _god—_

“I’m just trying,” Lucifer starts, low and strained, and Sam shakes his head, dizzying effect, mocking Lucifer with his eyes. Doesn’t want to hear about whatever the hell Lucifer thinks he’s _trying_ to do, and he says as much, and then:

 _‘cause whatever the fuck it is, Lucifer— ‘s not working._

In the shadows of moonlight that stretch low-tinted and pale across the room, Lucifer looks dangerous. Uneven slashes of light cutting across his face, so that Sam can only half-see his expressions. “Sam,” Lucifer warns, soft, but Sam is well past the point of caring. Well past the point of nearly anything. 

_Why’nt you jus’ take what you want, goddammit,_ Sam says, clumsily shoving the sheets aside between words and standing on shaking legs. His eyes burning and stinging but there are no tears, none to be had from his dehydrated body. _Why don’t you just. I don’t mean anything, right, just. Jus’ punish me, okay, just do whatever the fuck you want—_

Lucifer takes a step closer. Almost doesn’t seem conscious of his actions, jaw clenched tight. His eyes keep dropping to Sam’s mouth and Sam sneers at him, smirking: _Yeah. Yeah, Luce. Tol’ you to take care of me. Don’t let me talk back t’you like that._

“Sam, listen,” Lucifer’s hand reaching out to set on his shoulder, and even like this Sam can’t stop himself from jerking backwards, pained furrow flashing between Lucifer’s eyebrows so quickly Sam hardly sees, and forgets it in the next few seconds anyway. “Whatever’s wrong,” Lucifer says. “Whatever you’re going through right now, we can _fix_ it—”

His body is one long tense line of tight, barely restrained want, and Sam watches him. Just watches, in the dark, his chest heaving to get enough air. Lucifer close enough for Sam to feel the warmth coming off his body, to smell 

_(sharp acrid cloying scent of cigarette smoke badly covered by familiar cologne underlined with the hint of blood and peach blossoms as they fall around their bodies)_

Lucifer’s scent, strong and familiar and Sam’s stomach gives a violent lurch, rotten wine taste filling his mouth, crowding up inside his closed-off throat, so that he has to swallow several times before it will go back down. 

_You said you wouldn’t fuck me when I was useless,_ Sam reminds him. His hands tripping and trembling and he can barely get the words out: _’m not useless now._ Forces his hand to shoot out, to grab at Lucifer’s wrist. To tug him forward and shove his hand against Sam’s chest. Right over the fresh scar, Sam staring defiant and drunk as Lucifer’s fingers dig in instinctively, and Sam gasps, the pain jolting up his spine. His heart slamming against his ribs, pushing into Lucifer’s palm.

“What do you _want,_ Sam?” Lucifer asks. Demands, really, and Sam grips Lucifer’s wrist tighter, frustration welling up in his chest.

 _Y’ aren’t even **listening** ,_ he says. _I said. I. Lucifer—_ Reaches up and touches his mouth, pulling on his lower lip. ‘Fuck me,’ he mouths, pleading, and Lucifer jerks back like Sam’s slapped him. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Lucifer tells him. Staring at his hand like he barely recognizes it there, set flat against Sam’s shirt. “I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you, Sam—”

 _Come on just do it come on Lucifer **please** —_ Sam dragging Lucifer’s hand down his chest, staring at him unwavering and drunk and pleading. The insides of his thighs aching, burning with want for his knife, but _no, not yet, not yet—_

 _I **want** you,_ Sam says, _I want you to jus’—_ He jerks himself forward, shoves his hips up against Lucifer’s thigh. Nausea rises in his chest, instant, Lucifer’s whole body solid and thick and _right there_ no escape no getting away from his heat his scent the feel of him pressed right along Sam’s side but Sam 

_(it doesn’t fucking matter)_

just drags himself against Lucifer. Not hard, not even close, cuts raw and burning at the tug-pull-catch of the fabrics against his skin, and Sam’s breath hitches in his throat. _Please,_ he says, still with Lucifer’s hand caught under his against the torn-up line down his chest. Hand shaking so bad it hurts to sign, and he mouths it again: ‘Please,’ desperate and almost crying. Feels like he’s drowning, can’t get enough air, but it’s good. It’s better this way.

“Sam,” Lucifer starts, his voice raw and ripped open and _wrecked,_ and Sam wrenches his hand off Lucifer’s wrist. Onto his own arm, over the most jagged scar, the one he flayed apart so many weeks ago. Digs his nails down _hard,_ too much pressure but it’s the only way he can feel anything anymore, and he says:

 _Lucifer please god you have to—_

Except then his stomach catches on Lucifer’s belt loop.

Except then Lucifer registers the flaccid pathetic line of his cock barely even noticeable against the inseam of his trousers.

Except then Sam’s scars from earlier burst, soaking hot and salty under his shirt, and there’s no mistaking the feeling of blood under their hands when both of them are already so familiar with it.

Lucifer stumbles back like Sam’s scalded him. Looking disgusted, looking like

_(no one wants damaged goods, darling)_

he’s just realized where he is. Who he’s with.

He says, “Sam, what the fuck are you doing?” and there’s nothing uncertain in his voice anymore. Nothing but pure cold rage slamming into Sam in massive shards all at once. Crowding out any space he had left to breathe or think or feel anything but the blistering pain ratcheting up from his stomach.

They both stare for a second at the crimson spread under Sam’s shirt

_(“Try on the blue. Brings out the green in your eyes.”_

_“When are you ever gonna let my eye color go, Luce? Just accept it’s one of life’s little mysteries and move on,” and Sam’s still laughing, soft and teasing, when Lucifer sticks his head through the dressing room curtain just to glare at him.)_

and then Lucifer is. _Lunging_ forward. Wrenching Sam’s shirt (rich blue, Sam’s second favorite, barely even fits him anymore) off his shoulders. Buttons popping off, scattering bright little glittering jewels across the floor as they roll and tumble away. Both of them staring at Sam’s chest, his stomach. Sticky and bright red with blood, the cut ripped apart, and Sam so thin he thinks he can see the beat of his heart underneath.

Lucifer’s hands on his belt loops

_(no no no NO NO NO don’t you dare touch me there don’t you fucking DARE put your hands on me oh god oh god OH GOD LUCIFER HELP)_

jerking his trousers off in one swift movement. The tight catch and pull on his skin tearing more scar tissue off, and Sam hisses in discomfort and relief at the sharp spike of pain. 

Long ladder of scars running down his lower stomach, down his inner thighs. Sam naked and trembling before another man for the first time in eight weeks and Lucifer stares and he stares and he _stares_ as the blood falls down Sam’s chest tripping over his ribs down the line of his cock—

“Sam,” Lucifer breathes. Shock in his eyes, clear indication he didn’t know, hadn’t even guessed, and Sam swallows down another surge of nausea. 

_‘s all I have,_ he says, and then there. _There’s_ that flash of anger across Lucifer’s face. There’s all Sam’s been waiting for when Lucifer reaches out. Grabs Sam by the shoulders, shoves him back until his spine thuds against the wall, plaster cracking underneath his bones. 

“You _foolish_ child!” Lucifer roars into his ears, face contorted with fury, teeth gritted so tight Sam thinks he can hear them grinding. “You—all these weeks— _destroying_ yourself, as if you believe I would _allow_ that?”

Sam’s wrists are caught between them, like this, so that he has to drag one hand out. Covered in his own blood, and he nearly slams it into Lucifer’s face when he says:

 _Like you even noticed, Lucifer._ Eyebrows lifted, still taunting even though he feels so light-headed. So very close to the edge. One eye on Lucifer’s face, the other on the handle of his knife, sticking out from under his mattress. Last chance at salvation.

“Don’t test me, Sam,” Lucifer snarls. “Don’t you fucking dare.” With his fingers still flexing on Sam’s shoulders, his hips just barely avoiding being pressed into Sam’s. 

_So **do** something about it,_ Sam snaps right back, and when Lucifer flips them, turning Sam towards the bed, his eyes dark in the moonlight and promising everything Sam can never give him again, Sam is ready. Yanks himself out of Lucifer’s grasp enough to grab the knife, tugging it out from between the mattress and the bed itself. Weeks and weeks of practice and his knife is as familiar in his hands as his cock was once, and Sam can feel it understanding what he wants. What he needs, now.

 _It’s time, sweetheart,_ Sam tells it, in his mind, and his knife is cool and smooth and free of error when he slashes up, diagonal across Lucifer’s side. 

“Sam...?” Lucifer gasps, before he stumbles back. Clutching at the thin scrawl of blood on his skin, watching it slip between his fingers in numb shock. 

The thing is, Sam didn’t cut him _deep._ He’s not exactly an idiot, even now, standing here with his knife in his shaking hand, blood dripping from his chest and the edge of Lucifer’s ribs as they stand facing each other in the pitch-dark room, moon gone behind a cloud. Not even with no food in his system and nothing in his mind but black, hard static crawling across his brainwaves. Nothing but a thin red film over his vision to indicate he’s still alive, just the pain in his legs and his stomach and his ass. Just

_(no one wants damaged goods)_

all of Sam’s nothingness, piled up all at once into a massive coagulation of destruction and desperation and this very last attempt at feeling anything. Anything at all, before he. Before.

 _You like this, right?_ Sam asks. Casual, though his hands are shaking. Calm even through the pounding echo of his heart in his ears. _You like when it hurts, right?_

“Sam... ah... _fuck,_ give me that.” Lucifer’s fingers crooked towards him, splattered with blood, his mouth set tight. Eyes screwed halfway shut from the pain, and Sam snorts at that:

 _Amateur._

He lifts his left arm. Makes sure Lucifer’s eyes are on him, focused and intent and _terrified,_ and then—

 _Slash._ Wide arcing stroke down his arm, through the already-damaged tissue, his knife embracing the warm hold in the way he’d always known it would, _oh thank you sam thank you for giving me this thank you—_

Sam watching Lucifer fall to his knees, holding his wound. Face gone pale, ashen, viciously highlighting the dark rings around his eyes. Eyes that are fixated on Sam’s arm in horror, mouth opening and shutting. “Sam.” Voice hoarse. Small. So small. It breaks something in Sam’s chest, tears him wide open, leaves no room for him to be put back together whole. Or at all. 

He sinks to his knees too. Holds his knife out to Lucifer, arm vibrating with the effort of holding it up. Blood dripping freely onto the carpet, and it’s with a great effort that he manages to sign with his other hand:

**_Kill me. Please._ **

“No.” The whisper shocked, as if Lucifer wasn’t expecting Sam to ask it, as if Lucifer could not have foreseen it, after all of what’s already happened. 

_You **have** to._ Sam is crying, first time in a while. The sensation of tears on his cheeks strange, almost painful when the salt drips past his chin and onto his ruined body. Mouth trembling as he makes himself move his lips in a silent plea: ‘Luce. I _need_ you to.’

Lucifer shakes his head. One hand still on his chest, the other reaching out to grasp at Sam’s arm, and Sam jerks it back, the knife’s edge catching on Lucifer’s wrist, slicing another gash through his skin as it goes. He’s trained it so well...

Lucifer gasps, drawing his hand back, gripping at his already-soaked wrist with unsteady fingers. But his eyes are firm on Sam’s when he says again:

“No.”

 _Why._ Sam has to pause mid-sentence for a moment, his hand faltering, vision going gray and dim for a second, but then—

 _Damaged goods,_ he signs. Angry, blistering with it. Pointing at himself, covered in blood, shaking. So thin and off-balance, scars raking up his body. _Jus’ damaged goods._ Gesturing at his crotch, and Lucifer flinches. Pained line between his eyebrows going heavier, and Sam would smirk if he had the energy. 

“I don’t think that,” Lucifer says, quiet. “Sam. I never thought that. I just.” He takes in a deep breath, readjusting the grip on his wrist, trying to block the blood flow from his side with his arm, and then “I was wrong to tell you that,” he says. “I shouldn’t have tried to push you away.”

But Sam is too tired, too _done_ to try and dissect that sentence. He narrows his eyes at Lucifer, mouths, ‘Damaged,’ with his upper lip curled, and then he flips the knife over in his hand. So that it lands blade to his wrist, handle resting familiar and heavy in his palm. 

“Sam—”

 _You coward,_ Sam tells him. _I’ll just do it myself._ Eyes skating over the cuts scattered like dark constellations along his legs, his hips. One slashed through the curve of his waist, and Sam briefly considers replicating it before his gaze falls.

Directly.

Down.

_(“lovely pretty long cock oh sammy gonna have this down my throat every night now”)_

He grips his knife tighter. Looks up at Lucifer, who is listing to the side, eyes faltering, mouth working faint and staggered: ‘Sam, no, god, Sam, please,’ and Sam’s hand is shaking, bad, but his knife is steady when he brings it wailing downwards. 

Bright burst of stark pain exploding through his body, behind his eyelids. Surging hot through his veins and his legs, shooting down his arms. Vicious and wet splatter between his thighs and Sam is screaming again, sounds torn up from his throat as he falls backwards. Blood smeared across his hands, across everything.

He hears Lucifer’s choked moan: _“Sam,”_ and then the sparks flood his eyes, and then—

Nothing.


	25. Chapter 25

_—soft knocking on the door—_

“Boss...?” Ruby. Whispering through the crack. “Sir, are you in there?”

_—no answer—_

_—more knocking—_

“Sir, the guests are leaving. Some of them want to set up appointments—”

_—low moan from inside—_

“...Sir? ...Lucifer?”

_—no answer—_

“Sam...?”

_—silence—_

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna open the door now, I’m—oh. Oh my god. Oh my _god!_ Meg! Casey! Someone help me oh my GOD—”

~

_( **Four weeks ago:**_

_They meet up for dinner in the later part of the evening. Set up in Lucifer’s office, all his papers temporarily removed from his desk to make room for the wine glasses, the plates. Massive set-up of food from Inias: chicken and soup and sausage and baked beans, and Sam sits perched right on the edge of his chair. Staring at the food with this odd, hollow look in his eyes. Mouth set tight, and he’s shivering. Just barely, just enough for Lucifer to catch it, and he asks, “Sam, are you all right?” and Sam nods fast. Trying to force a smile on his face, forehead creasing like he’s in pain._

‘m fine, _he says._ This looks great. _But he isn’t touching his silverware, hasn’t even reached for his wine glass yet, and after a few moments Lucifer exhales. Soft and kind of sad, and he takes up a roll from the basket at the center of the desk. Tears out a chunk and starts chewing, Sam staring at the wall, his jaw gritted._

_Lucifer says, “How have you been, Sam?” pretending it isn’t his fault he doesn’t know. Watching Sam’s hands tremble as he reaches for his fork, scoops up a single serving of beans and nudges it past his lips._

_He shrugs, staring down at his lap._ Okay, _he says, and then,_ Can I ask you something?

_“Of course, Sam. Anything.”_

Are you. Are you going to be arrested, or anything?

_Lucifer blinks, startled. “What?”_

_Sam huffs out a breath, something that might have been faintly amused on a better day._ For Azazel, I mean, _he says. His shoulders a little hunched in, almost cringing from something Lucifer can’t see._ Because, I mean—you did shoot him, right? In the orchard?

_Lucifer closes his eyes for a moment. Remembering the sleek cold feel of the pistol in his hand as he’d gone straight through the house. Sam nowhere to be seen and he’d heard one of the little sluts mention she’d seen Sam outside through her window as she was dressing for the evening, heading into the backyard. Lucifer storming out immediately, feeling of sick dread rising in his throat as he realized where Sam would’ve gone—where Azazel would’ve found him—_

_He says, “I did,” and Sam nods. Cutting his chicken into small strips, pushing chunks of it around on his plate._

So are you gonna be in trouble for that? _Sam asks, and Lucifer shakes his head._

 _“He’s been on London’s Most Wanted list for years,” he says, dry. “No one was able to catch him because he kept paying people to keep silent, but the police aren’t exactly drowning in grief now that he’s gone.” He smirks, glances up. Sam is just watching him, faint glassy sheen over his eyes, and Lucifer clears his throat._

_“It pays to have money and high connections, Sam,” he says, quiet. “Azazel was never anyone’s favorite, so no. They’re not going to come looking for me now he’s dead.”_

Oh, _Sam says._ Okay. _Nods, trying again to smile, but it falls flat, and Lucifer’s chest aches with the expression on his face. Tense and unhappy and Lucifer wants to ask what’s wrong, but he knows he won’t get very far._

 _They’re both quiet for a long time after. Lucifer eating, Sam—cutting his food into the smallest bits possible and occasionally shoving some into his mouth. Chewing slow before he swallows, and he never stops shaking the whole time. Eyes flitting from one corner of the room to the other, never quite able to land directly on Lucifer, and after half an hour Lucifer can’t stand it anymore. Reaches across the table, not really thinking. His hand aimed for Sam’s wrist, just to take hold of it. Just for a second, but Sam’s jerking back before he can. His chair making a horrible scraping sound across the floor as he stands, breathing hard. Fork clattering to the floor, some of his soup sloshing over the side of its bowl. Shaking, backing up, his eyes wide and mouth moving soundlessly._

I, _he says, but his fingers are fumbling over each other so badly Lucifer can barely understand him._ I’m sorry, I. I have to— _and then he turns and runs. Leaving Lucifer sitting at his desk, his hand still outstretched. Pain stretched out in his chest, grief coagulating and dropping heavy into his stomach, and he shoves his plate aside, appetite gone._

_‘You knew you were going to hurt him, you idiot,’ a voice snarls in his head, and Lucifer drops his head into his hands.)_

~

The very first thing Lucifer is aware of is the beeping. 

Insistent and annoying sound to his left, and he’s automatically reaching out with his arm to shut it the fuck _off_ when the first waves of pain hit. Sharp and tight cascading lines running tripping down his ribs. Up his arm and into his left wrist, dancing along the edges of his brand-new bright scars. All the visible damage Sam did to him.

_Sam._

Comes back to him sudden, like being dumped in ice water, like being struck by lightning. Images searing themselves into the forefront of his mind: Sam knelt before him, the knife in his trembling bloodstained hand. Sam with slashes across his legs, his chest, his hips. Sam soaked in blood and tears, _begging_ Lucifer to. To.

_(kill me. you have to. i need you to)_

Sam digging into his own flesh. Sam’s mouth moving over words he’ll probably never speak out loud again. Sam staring desperate and worn and exhausted and manic at Lucifer and he can hardly believe he didn’t _notice,_ all these weeks and he never _saw—_

He’s retching so hard he can’t breathe, and only Casey running in, turning him on his side, saves him from the death he’s suddenly aching for. Blood-streaked vomit dribbles out of his mouth into a pan at the side of the bed and she holds him through it, her fingers—long, freshly painted, faint smell of sex still lingering on the tips—carding through his hair. Low voice murmuring, “It’s all right, Lucifer. It’s all right.”

He’s dizzy when he finishes, gasping for air as she wipes his mouth with a dishtowel and eases him back onto the bed. “Casey,” he starts. Finds his voice hoarse, ruined. “Case—Casey.”

Her eyes flick over to him. “Sir?”

Lucifer coughs. Ragged ugly sound heaved up, tearing at the stitches dug into his side, barely patched up and feeling like it’s going to crack apart at any second. 

_(so much blood everywhere drenching sam’s thighs his hands his stomach)_

“Where’s Sam?” Lucifer asks. Very quiet. “Is he. Did. Sam’s. He’s all right?”

Casey drops her gaze to the floor. Where some of Lucifer’s vomit has spattered against the discolored tiles, near the pristine white slip-ons she only wears as a real doctor. Doesn’t answer for a second, and a clench starts up in Lucifer’s chest, well past the line of battered scar tissue marring his skin. So that he has to force himself onto his side again, lifting his arm until the muscles are pulling and tearing so hard it won’t go any farther. 

He touches her elbow, the closest he can get to grabbing her shoulder like he wants. “Hey. _Hey.”_ He’s shaking, voice rough. Cut through with wire and poison. “Answer my _fucking_ question, you _slut. Is Sam alive?”_

She closes her eyes for a second. Swallows hard, and Lucifer can’t tell if she’s upset by the question or by what he called her. Not that it should matter, not to her. When she gets paid by the hour to be called that every night, and she never says no. The men that choose her have never _violated_ her, sent her spiraling down the edge—

“He’s alive,” she says, finally. Still staring at her shoes, mouth working, and Lucifer collapses back against his bed with a soft, relieved groan.

“But Lucifer,” and her voice is quiet, so that he has to strain to hear her. “Sir—we just.”

“We _what?”_ he pushes, when she doesn’t say anything else, and she draws in a deep breath.

“We don’t know for how much longer.”

~

In the end, it’s only the feeling of Lucifer’s stitches ripping themselves apart that saves Casey’s life. The fact that he has to reluctantly fall back against the mattress, breathing hard, palm aching and ribs splintering. Casey standing with her back to the wall as far from him as she can get, shaking and terrified, and when Alastair wanders in a few minutes later he finds them like that. Casey crying and Lucifer still half-straining to get at her, to tear her lungs out through her throat for even _daring_ to suggest. To even _hint_ that Sam might not.

“And I see that our patient has found out the, hmm—bad news,” Alastair drawls, chuckling all low and raspy at the back of his throat as he presses none-too-gently on the bruised skin surrounding Lucifer’s wound. Rough fingers prodding until a vicious pain tears through Lucifer and he cries out before he can stop himself, sound wrenched up through his throat. 

“Fuck you,” Lucifer spits, when he can get his voice to work right. “You have to save him.”

“Hmm,” Alastair says. “I’m not sure we _can.”_

Lucifer stares up at him. Completely shaken, and where he is, the fact that he’s lying down should give Alastair a power boost over Lucifer. Should make him the one who holds all the cards here

 _(he does though and you know it that’s the only reason you’re not ripping his heart from his chest right now)_

but even that doesn’t stop Lucifer from shutting his expression down, into the practiced domineering look he’s used for so many years now to get precisely what he wants. Until there’s nothing but cold fury and hatred in his eyes, in the tight lines around his mouth. His nostrils flared as he breathes, clenching his fist. Feeling pain lance through the scar on his wrist. 

“You _will,_ you son of a bitch, or so help me god—”

“No need to get nasty,” Alastair hums, and laughs again. Pushing his fingers against Lucifer’s side one more time before he stands, and _“You,_ you’re definitely going to live,” he says. “However, hmm— _unfortunate_ that might be for the people who work here.

“But Sam. Dear, darling Sam.” He shakes his head, starts pacing. Tapping his stylus against the tablet he’s carrying, and Lucifer’s muscles are straining and sore with the effort it takes not to launch himself up and strangle Alastair to death right here. “Sam has been starving himself for—hmm, what did we approximate, Casey?”

“Fully for eight weeks, partially for over a year,” Casey whispers to the floor.

_Over a year?_

“Yes,” Alastair hisses. “Exactly. And he’s been cutting for—?”

“Eight weeks,” Casey whispers again.

_(sam has been starving himself for over a year)_

“Not to mention the—oh, hmm, _terrible_ lacerations caused by both rape incidents—and the effects of exhaustion due to a _severe_ lack of sleep—” It’s clear Alastair is enjoying himself, for some sick reason, and Lucifer feels physically repulsed. Thinking of 

_(blood splattered across the floor sam laying unconscious before him knife clattering to the floor)_

the night everything fell apart, and he interrupts, soft snarling voice:

_“Can you fix him or not?”_

The corner of Alastair’s mouth is pinched, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Not sure we have the necessary equipment—”

“Take whatever the fuck you need out of the account, buy the tools, and make sure Sam stays alive,” Lucifer growls. Should’ve known Alastair would be angling for money, that’s all he ever wants, but Lucifer is past the point of caring. Past the point of being able to focus on anything that isn’t Sam 

_(starving himself for over a year)_

holed up and alone in some other part of the brothel—

“Where is he?” Lucifer asks, the thought slicing through his mind, and Casey pushes off the wall and takes a few tentative steps forward. 

“I can take you to see him,” she says. “If you feel like you can be moved right now—”

Lucifer’s fingers are already digging into the sheets. Curled hard against the mattress, ignoring the throbbing in his bones as he tries to sit up. “Get me to Sam,” he snaps, flushed all over as Casey eases him off the bed and into a wheelchair. Tugging the steel-chambered floating heart monitor over to hover beside Lucifer’s head, and she rolls him out. Both of them ignoring Alastair, and his soft chuckling, Lucifer tense against the chills that keep running up his spine.

“We’re not sure if it was really a full year that Sam was—” Casey starts, and Lucifer holds up his good hand. Eyes closed, head tilted back. 

“Shut up,” he breathes, and Casey pushes him on in silence.

~

There’s a hospital wing separate from the main one. Mostly for the extreme cases, like the youngest prostitutes getting fucked too hard and hemorrhaging, or if a client begins to have health problems but can pay the same amount for health coverage as he or she would have for services. Things like that, things that Lucifer doesn’t want Alastair overseeing directly because of how he is, and Sam is here. Taken care of by Jacob Gaines, who is. Less unconventional than Alastair, which. Lucifer can deal with that.

Casey rolls Lucifer into the wing and backs out quietly, her mouth tight at the corners. It’s empty of everyone except Sam, and Lucifer pushes himself forward. Ignoring the sharp pain blistering up his tendons from his grip on the wheel as he goes, and then he’s beside Sam’s bed, and he.

He can’t _breathe._

Sam is lying there, breathing slow and even. Deep scratches down his face, his throat, from when Azazel attacked him. Pale and drawn against the sheets, his arms emaciated, the left one covered in a thick white bandage, the right one attached to a machine like Lucifer’s, gas-powered and carved out of steel. The sheet covering him has slipped a little, and Lucifer can see the edges of his chest scar peeking out from under his hospital gown, stitched up tight. The skin around it red and bruised and ugly, stretched too much like the gauze around his arm, and it takes Lucifer a few minutes to realize the grating gasping sound is him. He’s crying, shaking with it. Clutching the rail around Sam’s bed, staring at him through blurred eyes, watching Sam’s breathing on the machine, and he whispers:

“Sam, I’m sorry. Sam, I’m so _fucking_ sorry.” Reaches under the blanket, feeling around for Sam’s hand. His thumb grazing Sam’s wrist, the skin paper thin and cold, and Lucifer rolls his thumb gently across Sam’s veins. 

“I shouldn’t have tried to push you away,” Lucifer whispers to him. “I should’ve been there when. When you needed me. I should have never told you you’re worthless—I can never forgive myself for this happening, Sam. Never.” His throat closes up, choking off his voice. So that all Lucifer can do is sit there, tears silently running down his cheeks, stroking Sam’s wrist. Staring at him. At his boy, the most important thing in Lucifer’s life, so far from damaged goods, so far from

_(kill me please i need you to)_

worthless. Perhaps the only person alive that Lucifer loves. Or even likes.

He touches his forehead to Sam’s bedside for a moment. Unable to bear the thought of Sam dying. Of Sam passing on to the next world thinking Lucifer hates him. Or that he was repulsed by him 

_(damaged goods jus’ damaged goods)_

in any way. 

Sam has to know. He has to understand that he’s Lucifer’s whole world. That Lucifer’s mistake came from trying too hard to protect Sam from being hurt even by Lucifer himself, without remembering that pain isn’t just physical. 

“You have to live,” Lucifer whispers to him. “You have to make it through this, Sam. Even if you wake up hating me. Even if you try to stab me with a knife again, at least I won’t have to worry about you being buried before I am. Sam. _Sam.”_ He squeezes Sam’s hand once. “Sam, _please,”_ he whispers, voice getting caught in his throat. Thumb just barely picking up the staggered pulse in Sam’s wrist. 

He strokes Sam’s hair back off his forehead with his free hand. Loosens his grip on Sam’s wrist, just slightly, and he waits.


	26. Chapter 26

Five days. 

Five days of Sam unconscious. Sam lying on his hospital bed and letting a machine breathe for him. Sam’s bandages changed day in and day out. Electrolytes supplied through a clear plastic canister set up by his heart monitor. The scars wiped down and cleaned and the stitches pulled after four days. Sam slowly being rebuilt and yet Lucifer has never seen him look so broken.

Lucifer, who never leaves Sam’s bedside. Not once, not even when they tell him his own wounds have healed enough that he can walk again, provided he doesn’t go very far. Lucifer, trembling and shaken down to his core. Thinking in terrified silence of everything he’s put Sam through. All because he was too selfish, too eager to try and protect Sam, to think about what it would _do_ to him, in the end. 

He holds Sam’s hand under the sheets, strokes his wrist. Talks to him, soft and gentle. _Still practicing sign language, for when you wake up,_ he’ll say, and then, after a pause: _If you’ll want to talk to me, that is._

_Ruby misses you. They all do._

Still pushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead: _You don’t have to forgive me, Sam. It’s okay. I don’t deserve that. I don’t expect you to._

And then. Five days after Sam tried to kill himself. Five days after the worst night of Lucifer’s life—

He’s dozing beside Sam’s bed, his head drifting down, chin thunking against his chest. Keeps dreaming in swathes of red and black. Smell of iron everywhere, things dripping from the ceiling. Sam’s voice echoing painful and broken and lost in his ears

_(kill me i need you to)_

so that every time Lucifer jerks awake, he’s bathed in sweat. His eyes cutting each time to Sam’s form, waiting to see if by some miracle he’s woken up, but every time—just Sam, unconscious. His eyelashes brushing his cheeks, the machine beeping steady as he breathes, and Lucifer finds himself dropping off yet again—

~

Sam finds himself slammed into the waking world with startling and unwelcome clarity. Aware only of pain. Darkness. The feeling like something vital has been ripped from his chest. His whole body aches in violent and unforgiving pulses, even with the steady drip of the opiates he can feel sliding into his veins. He can feel the long cut down his sternum even without touching, feels the burn of the scars scattered along his stomach and his hips. 

He can’t feel anything between his legs, where the scarring was the worst, but that’s okay. Sam always knew he’d pay good money never to feel anything there again. Not as long as he lived. 

It takes him a long time to open his eyes. To adjust from the red-spotted black of his mind to the hospital room, whitewashed walls and sharp halogen lights overhead. He feels off-balanced, unsteady. Aware that he’s lying down but afraid that at any second, he’s going to roll right off the bed. 

There’s a nutrition pump sending slow waves of electrolytes into his veins every hour. A heart monitor perched just beside it, humming soft with electric currents. His breathing regulated by tubes pressed up against his chest, contracting and expanding with each push and pull of his bruised battered ribs. Dull pain starting up in his left arm, scarred and healed over and scarred again

_(just like you sam lacerated ripped open so many times who knows if you can be repaired for good)_

and he lifts it with an effort. Reaching out to grab at the machines, sore fingers grasping blindly so he can turn them off. Switch off that ridiculous beeping, because Sam isn’t interested in any machine that is going to save his life, not when he went through so much trouble already to try and end it—

Except then hands close around his wrists. Tight and just this side of too hard, grasping and pulling him back, and Sam’s eyes shut immediately. Gasping and tensing and pulling but he’s weak he’s so weak there’s nothing he can do now—

“Sam, _Sam!”_ Familiar rough broken voice

_(lucifer)_

all caught and torn up in his throat and Sam’s whimpering, still half-trying to pull away but it _hurts,_ it hurts so _much._ His mind all muddled up with the machines’ noises and the confused buzzing in his brain and Lucifer, sitting so close, holding his hands like he has the _right—_

Sam wrenches his eyes open, spins around to stare. At Lucifer who is sitting perched right at the edge of his bed, staring at him desperate and terrified and he’s crying, tears spilling down his cheeks as he grips Sam’s fingers, whispers _no don’t_ over and over. 

“Sam,” Lucifer breathes out, ragged and wrecked and ruined. Trembling against Sam’s skin, and Sam jerks his hand, but it’s hardly an effort and instead of getting farther away he finds himself falling in closer. Crying now too, little gasping sobs and his chest hitching mind racing over everything _no let me turn the machines off Lucifer let me end this please **please** I don’t want to be here I don’t—_

“I won’t leave you,” Lucifer says. His grip relaxing on Sam’s wrists in slow increments, their bodies always at least half a foot apart—though Sam can feel the heat radiating off Lucifer’s skin, and it feels so much closer than that—and Sam could get away now. Could knock into the nutrition pump, flip the switch on the heart monitor. But he’s crying too hard to even think, his whole body shuddering, hurting worse because of how tense he’s holding himself, and Lucifer just sits there. Barely stroking the back of Sam’s hand, his voice still choked up. Still crying, too, as he whispers, “I swear it, Sam. I swear.”


	27. Chapter 27

The next couple of days feel stretched. Worn thin, warped. Sam doesn’t know what to do with himself if he’s not actively trying to die. Doesn’t know how to fill his time with anything outside of all the energy he burned when focusing on his suicide. 

He’s gained back a few pounds since he’s been unconscious, the electrolytes pumping steady into his system, and he doesn’t like looking at his arms now. Soft flesh reforming over knobs of bone and lean, whipcord muscle, and Sam knows if he stays lying down much longer he’s going to get fat. 

_Can you get them to take me off this damn thing, at least,_ he asks Lucifer one afternoon, his hands shaking because Dr. Gaines is trying to wean him off the opiates, dose by dose, and it feels like Sam’s being carefully torn apart from the inside. Not all at once, but in small fleeting increments. Little rips here and there, satiated by tomorrow’s injection for a few hours, and then pulled right back to the surface. _I could eat real food, I don’t have to get pumped like a fucking animal led to slaughter—_

“Your stomach would revolt,” Lucifer says, short. Sharp, without looking up from the book he’s reading, in between watching Sam speak. “It’s been nine weeks since you last ate more than half an apple every three days—over a year since you last ate a full, balanced meal.” His eyes are trained on the pages, but there’s a vague angry current running through his voice. Threaded harsh around his words, and Sam wants to be annoyed with him. To ask why Lucifer is once again forcing all the blame of the situation on Sam, except that’s not. That isn’t quite what it feels like. For once.

Sam reaches out. Lightly nudges Lucifer’s knuckles with the tips of his fingers, waits for him to look up from his book before he says, _I know. I just don’t want. I wanna stay in shape. That’s all._

Lucifer’s mouth goes tense for a moment. When he speaks, it’s careful. Deliberate choosing of his words. “You’ll be recovering for weeks, Sam. Even after you leave the hospital. No one’s going to expect you to start working anytime soon.” His fists are clenched on the sheets. Like he has to forcibly restrain himself from reaching out to touch, and Sam’s body rails from the thought. 

Then Lucifer’s words register, and Sam says fast, _You mean work like—_

“Waiting tables. Dancing, if you want. _If_ you want.” Lucifer watches Sam carefully. So fucking carefully. Something bright and hurt flashes across his face and is gone in an instant. “Just like you used to, before—Sam.” His fingers twitch again, hard. “You didn’t think I. Sam, you. You can’t think that.”

_(won’t fuck you when you’re this useless)_

Sam shakes his head, but he can’t look up. His eyes are burning, throat closing up. He knows, logically, that Lucifer isn’t going to make him fuck the clients ever again. Not unless Sam would want to, which. That’s never going to happen, and he _knows_ Lucifer isn’t going to force him, but. Sam knows he spent all his time after being raped—both times—doing nothing. Nothing except sitting around, shaking and hurting and failing at recovery, and he’d assumed it wasn’t bothering Lucifer because the first time, it had been Lucifer’s doing, and the second time—

But if Lucifer’s sick of Sam staying here with nothing to do. If he’s tired of Sam not dancing, or waiting tables, then Sam has become expendable. Useless. And if Sam is useless—if Lucifer has no purpose for him here— 

“Sam,” Lucifer says. Very soft. His voice wrenched up from some deep wrecked place, and Sam can feel his head turning against his will. Just to look, automatic physical reaction to Lucifer when he sounds like that. Just Sam wanting to patch Lucifer up, no sense in both of them being rent apart at once, but before he can. Before Sam can look at Lucifer, the door opens. 

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Alastair says, sneering at both of them. “Am I, hmm— _interrupting_ anything?”

Lucifer sets his book down. The line of his arm tense and shaking as he glares at Alastair, face cold, expressionless. “What the hell are you doing here, Alastair,” he asks. “This isn’t your wing—”

“But this _is_ my patient.” Alastair smiles at Sam, nowhere near reaching his eyes, and Sam shivers so hard his heart monitor gives a little warning beep. “I just wanted to check up on my little Sammy.” 

_(sammy boy)_

Sam turns away too fast, gets a cramp in his neck. He can feel Alastair getting closer to the bed and he shifts, closing his eyes. Breathing out, trying to remind himself of where he is

_(peach blossoms falling onto bloodstained grass)_

and who he’s with. That Lucifer would never let anything happen to Sam. Even if he hasn’t been there in months, Sam knows that. Or he thinks he does— 

Lucifer snarls, “You’ll stop moving, or I’ll have your heart carved out of your chest and served up for dinner this evening in the banquet hall.”

Alastair chuckles, sound like a snake slithering out of old skin on dry fields. “Always with the temper,” he says. But Sam can tell he’s not walking forward anymore, either.

Lucifer says, “Sam isn’t your patient, he’s one of Jacob’s—”

“Oh, no,” Alastair interrupts. “I believe I remember you specifically—hmm, telling me you wanted Sam fixed at any cost? And that I could take my share of wealth from the bank to help your darling little boy heal?”

“Sam has been under Gaines’ care since—”

“Oh, mm, Lucifer, don’t make me laugh so hard, I’ll pull something.” Sam cannot look at him, but he hears a vague dangerous tone underneath the usual lisping malice of Alastair’s voice. “Gaines has been very— _generous_ with allowing me to assist him in Sam’s recovery. And what a—hmm, _wonderful_ recovery it’s been.” His eyes are on Sam, he can feel them settled somewhere on his chest, and Sam has to work at not vomiting all over the machines to his right. 

“A miraculous recovery indeed,” Lucifer says, voice curled through with hatred, a curious sort of sarcasm thinly veiled under all his masked neutrality, “considering I have never once seen Jacob Gaines asking Casey to change the bandages on Sam’s legs—”

“Perhaps you just haven’t been as—hmm, observant as you’re pretending to be.” Alastair’s smirking, Sam can hear it in his voice. “Believe me, Luci—the bandages have been changed every single day. Not even your precious Sam can go without that treatment.”

“Fine.” Lucifer is _furious._ Violence and anger stirring just underneath an icy surface, and Sam shivers again, knowing what all that power is capable of. What Lucifer could do to Alastair right now, if he were so inclined.

_(what he could’ve done to you a week ago when you tried to kill him even if you weren’t aiming for his heart it sure as hell looked like that he could have killed you **should** have killed you worthless useless whore)_

“Fine,” Alastair spits right back.

Sam hears Lucifer shift in his chair. “You’ve seen Sam,” he says. Quiet. Controlled—but just barely. “And he’s doing just fine. So if you’re done sucking your own dick now, we’d appreciate it if you left.”

“What an interesting choice of words,” Alastair hums, without moving. “Considering the circumstances—”

 _“Get out,”_ Lucifer growls, the vibrations of his voice carrying down deep into Sam’s bones, sliding through his bloodstream. 

Alastair shuffles backwards. He’s nearly at the door before he speaks again: 

“If you aren’t fully aware of the extent of Sam’s injuries, I’d suggest you become acquainted with them _very_ quickly. They can be, hmm—quite _shocking,”_ and then he’s gone, laughing as he walks down the hall until they can’t hear him anymore.

 _What’s he talking about, Luce?_ Sam asks, the tension finally uncoiling from his spine. So that he’s able to turn back. To face Lucifer, who is. Less of a threat than other people. Most of the time. 

Lucifer shrugs, shakes his head. “We know everything that’s. That hurts you.” His eyes flick momentarily to Sam’s cheek, the deep scarred-over gash Azazel left running from his eye to his mouth. Down to his arm, the worst cut because of how many times Sam tore it open again, still stitched up and covered in bandages. The loose-fitting hospital gown that doesn’t do a lot to cover Sam’s chest wound, or the scars scattered across his stomach and hips.

 _Maybe he meant my. Um. The scarring._ Sam can feel his cheeks flushing, which is so _stupid,_ it isn’t as if Lucifer doesn’t already know, but Lucifer doesn’t comment. Just nods, then sighs. Pushes his chair back, mouth thin, pained expression in his eyes. 

“I have to go, Sam,” he says. Voice soft and apologetic, the way it always gets at this time of day. “Just for a few hours. I’ll be back before you’re asleep tonight.”

The way it’s been for two days now, since Sam woke up. Lucifer staying all day at his bedside, then leaving in the evenings to entertain upstairs, to manage his business. Usually he comes back around midnight, and Sam pretends to be asleep so that Lucifer won’t try talking to him, though he’s sure Lucifer knows. His footsteps quiet, slow, as he sits beside Sam’s bed once more. Exhaling shakily, fingers stroking slow through Sam’s hair, just at the very tips, so that Sam can barely feel anything, and then he stays the night, and the cycle starts up all over again when the sun breaks through the windows to the east. 

_It’s fine,_ Sam tells him. Half-smiling, or trying to, though he must fail because Lucifer’s expression doesn’t change. _Really,_ Sam says. _It’s not like I can try killing myself down here or anything._

He sort of regrets it immediately after, the way Lucifer’s whole face shutters off. The shadow that casts itself over his features, but then Lucifer is smiling. Tense and nowhere near meeting his eyes, but when he stands, turns to go, he murmurs, “See you in a few hours, Sam,” and something in Sam’s chest unclenches itself.

He’s sort of running his hands over his scars an hour later, the bumpy ones on his hips, when his fingers brush up against numb skin. Not just tingling, but _numb._ Set right between his legs, Sam can’t even tell he’s touching himself there, and he knows he should be able to feel the scrape of his nails, at least. The strange, almost burning sensation there always kind of lingering in the back of Sam’s mind, but he’s only been awake for two days. The opiates Dr. Gaines is trying to wean him off still clinging pretty tight to his mind, and he’s been trying to avoid thinking of the pain he’ll be in once the drugs are gone completely. 

But this place. Hateful as it is, ruined as it is—Sam should be feeling something when he presses in. He knows it was numb like this two days ago but it should be healing, now. Alastair may be a complete fucking dick but he’s still a talented surgeon.

Sam pushes his hospital gown up. Tugs his blankets down. 

And _screams._

~

By the time Lucifer comes rushing down the stairs, Casey has already sedated Sam. Shoved him under the influence of the usual plethora of blackout drugs and opiates, and it’s all Lucifer can do not to shove her into the wall and crush her trachea for putting Sam right back into the arms of addiction. To remind himself that Casey’s the rational one in the hospital, that he needs her around, if only so that Sam will have someone reliable while he’s down here.

She’s saying, “Lucifer, sir, okay, don’t get mad—” but he’s shoving past her, staring at Sam lying unconscious and soaked in sweat on his hospital bed. Arms wrapped in thick black restraints, legs lashed down under his thin blanket. His hair is sticking to his forehead in clumps and Lucifer brushes it aside without thinking, smoothing his thumb over Sam’s hot skin. 

“An hour ago, he was fine,” Lucifer says, cold, without looking at Casey. “He was talking to me, and then I had to leave.” He slips his fingers off Sam, clenches them tight around the bed railings. “What the hell happened while I was gone?”

Her throat works as she swallows. “Um. Well. I—”

“Told you to check his injuries,” interrupts a familiar serpentine drawl, and Lucifer jerks his head up from where he’s been watching Sam to where Alastair is standing in the doorway. Leaned against the wooden frame with his arms folded and a self-righteous, amused smirk on his lips, and Lucifer is storming over without thinking. Until he’s pressed nearly flush against Alastair, his chest heaving as he breathes. One hand coming up and slamming Alastair back against the door by his shoulder, and he holds him there, snarling:

“What in the _hell_ did you do to Sam?”

Alastair raises an eyebrow. Drops his eyes to Lucifer’s mouth, that amused expression still on his face, and Lucifer shudders once, violently, but refuses to back down. 

“Oh, Luci, you flatter me, _really,”_ he says, “but I don’t _like_ you in—”

Lucifer’s fingers tighten around Alastair’s shoulder. Sliding up until his thumb is pressed against Alastair’s windpipe, squeezing in so hard he can feel the bones shifting under his grip. Furious at how out of control he feels, how incapable he is of taking care of the one person he. Of taking care of _Sam._

“I’ll ask you _one more time,”_ he murmurs. _“What in the hell did you do to Sam?”_

“It isn’t—mm,” shifting up a little so his throat is cleared enough that he can talk— “specifically about what _I_ did to Sam as what—hmm, _he_ did to himself. I only— _sped_ the process along.” He starts to chuckle, soft and dry, and Lucifer tightens his grip further. So that Alastair’s skin shines white under Lucifer’s fingers.

_“What—”_

“Young Sam did what he did with a very unsterilized knife,” Alastair murmurs. Almost like he’s contemplating the situation. “You should be thanking me for making sure he didn’t develop an infection.”

Lucifer shoves him harder against the wall, and Alastair lets out a kind of breathless laugh. “Re _lax,”_ he hisses, all sibilant syllables, lisping and humming between every breath. “Sam isn’t going to _die.”_

“Alastair—” Lucifer starts, for what feels like the thousandth time, and Alastair says:

“Plenty of men can live, hmm— _normal_ lives when they’ve been castrated.”

It doesn’t make sense. Not right away. Not to Lucifer’s ringing ears. The word _castrated_ kind of floating around aimlessly in his mind as he stares, blank and shocked, at Alastair. Only half aware of his hand falling away from Alastair’s neck and shoulder. Of backing up, his eyes gone wide, mouth open slightly.

“Oh, Luci, don’t act like you didn’t _know,”_ Alastair says. “It just puts you in denial if you claim you forgot what happened that night.”

_(Sam sprawled out. Knife in hand. Blood gushing everywhere, downward arc of his arm as he slashed violent and decisive between his legs—)_

“You’re lying,” Lucifer snarls. Hoping to god his voice isn’t shaking as bad as he thinks. Glances over at Sam, lying pale and vulnerable on the bed, and then “Sam passed out,” he says. “He couldn’t have. I. I was watching him the whole time—”

“By the time Sam was brought to me,” Alastair interrupts smoothly, “he had already cut off most of his cock and part of his left testicle. I had to sever the rest from his bleeding crotch or risk him developing gangrene, and quite frankly, Luci—I think your little pet slut’s already, mm—damaged enough without _that_ addition, don’t you?”

Lucifer’s stomach lurches. Red film falling over his eyes as saliva surges into his mouth, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to be sick or to kill. “I gave you money to _fix_ him,” Lucifer starts, so angry he can barely stand up straight, and Alastair leans in a little. Still smirking, mouth twisted up, and he says:

“Sam’s injuries were non-reversible. I gave him precisely what you asked for, and now he can’t fuck anyone. I’m assuming that was, hmm—part of a package deal for you two anyway? So it shouldn’t be a problem.” He pushes himself off the door, steps out into the hallway. Never taking his eyes off Lucifer’s, but Lucifer doesn’t feel intimidated. Or scared. Just furious, cold rage boiling in his chest as he stares at Alastair, hating him because he can hold this over Lucifer’s head, now. Can use it for the rest of his life.

“You shouldn’t care this much, Luci, it’s unbecoming,” Alastair says. “He’s just another one of your whores, after all,” and he slips out before Lucifer can kill him for saying that. He stands shaking for long seconds, his fists clenching. Thinking of Sam, only of Sam, and the way he’s going to react when he wakes up and remembers. What he’s going to think of himself, now. Even more so than he already has been. 

By the time Lucifer turns back to face the bed, Casey is already moving forward. “The blackout drug should wear off in a few hours,” she says fast. “It was mostly just to get him unconscious, I—Lucifer, he was so _scared—”_

“Get out,” Lucifer snaps, and Casey nods once, ducking out of the room, her long dark hair flowing behind her as she shuts the door.

Then it’s just Lucifer and Sam, and Lucifer doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Sam. Sam is _mutilated,_ now, and maybe he wouldn’t be if Lucifer had just. Had maybe tried harder. Spoken to him. Not ignored him for eight weeks. Not pushed him away the way he did, and Lucifer’s standing here now in this hospital room staring down at his kid, stretched out all pale and thin and weak on the bed because of the drugs being pumped through his system. 

He can’t remember why he ever thought cutting Sam off would be a good idea.

Lucifer sinks down onto the chair by Sam’s bed. His knees are sore from how tense he’s been holding himself, legs feel like that soft jelly served sometimes as dessert to the clients. His face is soaked and he has no idea how long he’s been crying, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore, except Sam. He’s all that’s ever mattered, right from the beginning, and Lucifer can’t believe he let himself forget. 

He reaches out, takes Sam’s hand in his. Strokes his thumb over the bones and veins in his wrist, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea of Sam thinking he’s anything less just because of what’s happened to him. Just because his genitalia are gone, Lucifer isn’t going to let Sam call himself damaged. Or ruined. Or anything

_(that you already called him)_

else degrading like that.

“We will get through this,” Lucifer whispers to Sam. Holding his hand so tight his fingers hurt. “We will. I swear, Sam.”

Then he touches his forehead to Sam’s knuckles, and lets himself cry.

~

Several hours later, not long after the clock upstairs strikes one in the morning, Sam wakes. His body stirring in slow increments, eyelids fluttering as they open, and Lucifer watches as he takes in his surroundings. Tenses for a moment at Lucifer’s proximity; slips more into wakefulness and sighs, relaxes slightly. Sam kinda stretches, yawns—

Lucifer sees the second it registers on his face, the memories of what happened. Why Sam had been unconscious in the first place, and his eyes go unfocused and shiny almost immediately. Tears swelling up and over, down his cheeks, down the little path between the corner of his eye and his ear. He doesn’t make any noise when he cries, but he’s chewing on his lower lip, hard enough to break the skin, and Lucifer’s hands ache with the need to touch. To tug his lip out, smooth over it with his thumb. To stroke Sam’s hair back and whisper that he’s going to be okay. That they both are.

Sam shifts up on the bed. So that he’s sitting, partially, one elbow resting against the softness of his pillow. He’s staring right at Lucifer, so much raw desperate need in his face, and he says, _Well, at least now I have an excuse not to fuck anyone._ Mouth twisted up all ironic and bitter, but Lucifer just watches him, waiting, and a few seconds later his face crumples. Breath catching in his throat, choking him, and Lucifer is right there to catch Sam when he falls forward and to the side, shoulders shaking as his body is wracked with silent sobs.

“Okay,” Lucifer murmurs into Sam’s hair. Stroking his shoulder and letting Sam call all the shots, letting him choose how hard he wants to rest his body against Lucifer’s. How much he wants to clench his fingers into Lucifer’s shirt. How long he wants to stay there. Anything Sam wants. Anything at all, for the rest of his life. “It’s okay, Sam.”


	28. Chapter 28

Sam gets out of the hospital a week later, in the middle of the day. When hardly anyone will be around to see him. To stare and make commentary on his appearance: disheveled hair, greasy and lank from so many months without taking care of it. The scars scattered across his face, his neck, his arm. The odd way he has to walk, now, getting used to the lack of—well, anything between his legs, all the skin numb as if it’s been burnt, the nerve endings fried off. The dull cast to his eyes, the bruised skin underneath. The sallow tint to his skin. The way his bones are visible, even in places where the electrolytes were helping him regain body mass. 

There’s a strict regimen Sam apparently has to stick to while he’s regaining his strength. A slow reintroduction into food, small muscle exercises. He can wait tables again in two and a half months. Can start practicing to dance again once his muscles are able to hold him up properly. 

Lucifer watches him read over the paper Casey handed to him before he left. Watches him so carefully, the way he has been ever since they found out the truth about what happened. His expression waging wars with itself about how much emotion to show, though the line of his shoulders is tense and unhappy, and Sam is nauseated by his desire to reach out and touch. To push his fingers through Lucifer’s hair and ask if he’s okay. 

_I’ll be sitting around doing nothing,_ Sam says instead, facing Lucifer off in the back hallway of the brothel. _For twelve weeks._

“Sam, that doesn’t bother me.”

 _I won’t have any **purpose** , Luce,_ he says, and Lucifer cuts his eyes away for a second. Mouth thin, pinched at the corners. 

“Sam, it isn’t exactly as if you’ve been dancing since—” pause, tight inhalation— “since before you left for Michael’s. You don’t have to worry about this, it’s only if you want to—”

 _I want to,_ Sam says, though he isn’t sure. Kind of tired of feeling 

_(useless)_

like he’s not getting anything accomplished, but mostly he’s just. Scared. Scared that Lucifer is going to get sick of him, of the way he’s just sitting around. Doing nothing, just wasting space, and a slut not on his knees is a slut this brothel doesn’t have any room for—

He’ll take both jobs back if it means securing 

_(lucifer)_

this roof over his head. 

Some of his thoughts must bleed over into his expression without his permission because Lucifer exhales. Tired and sad, and he says:

“I’m not going to kick you out,” all quiet. 

Sam thinks for a moment of

_(i’m giving you to a different company)_

the time Lucifer sent him to Michael’s, trying so hard to keep him from Azazel. Feels a vague surge of disbelief, because Lucifer isn’t exactly good at keeping his promises, but all he says is:

 _Yeah, I know,_ and offers Lucifer a half-smile, shaky and uncertain and painful, his heart clenching in his chest.

~

It doesn’t get better, not right away. 

But for the first time since Sam was raped in the orchard—really, since he came home from Michael’s—it starts to get easier. 

He switches rooms; moves from his own to Lucifer’s two nights after he gets out of the hospital. There’s a bed already ordered from London

(You planned this ahead of time? _Sam asks him, eyebrows raised, and Lucifer just exhales. Drags his palms down his face, and he looks so old. So tired, and Sam has to work at not walking over and resting his hands against Lucifer’s wrists._

_“I don’t want you back in there,” is what Lucifer tells him, biting on the corner of his mouth, and Sam doesn’t bother arguing.)_

and when the movers arrive with it Lucifer pays them extra to shift his room around, too. Dragging his bed up closer to the wall on the far left and setting Sam’s next to the door. So that he has fast and easy access to get out, just in case—just in case. 

He and Lucifer move his books and clothes over later. His sheets stay in the old room, crumpled up and bound for the incinerator. Some of his clothes, too, and honestly Sam is glad. Because there’s a massive blood stain still spread across the carpet. A pervasive iron smell in the air, and Sam swears every time he looks at his headboard he sees a glint of silver. The knife, come back, ready for him to use again. Tempting him, making his skin itch and ache with the need to carve into himself, and he can’t handle that on top of everything else. 

The first few nights, Sam sleeps in his new bed. Or, well, “sleeps”—it’s not coming naturally, there’s a pill Casey’s prescribed and Sam catches four, five hours a night. Always wakes from brutal vivid nightmares, twisted up in his sheets. Breathing hard and gasping into the thin scarred skin on his forearm, soaked in sweat and unable to shake the feeling of his skin crawling off. Smell of peaches in his nose, bile rising up in his throat, and Lucifer wakes up too, every time. Turns on the gas lamp by his bed and squints at Sam in the dim light, always looking a little like he can’t quite believe Sam is _here._ With him. Always gets up to get Sam a glass of water, and Sam doesn’t know how to explain that isn’t quite what he wants. Never really sure what he does want from Lucifer, except that the vague undefinable ache in his chest won’t go away. Even when Lucifer sits up with him, in a chair a few feet from his bed. Waiting until he’s finished drinking and then asking, soft uncertain voice that seems so much closer in the dark:

“Do you want to talk, Sam?” 

And Sam tries. He opens his mouth, waits to see if the words will come unglued from his throat. Cracks his knuckles and tries to form sentences with his hands but it just. It isn’t happening. No matter what Sam dreams about

_(slices down his arms sam able to speak again vocally holding his bloody scarred self before lucifer screaming in his face “you did this to me you left me alone you drove me to this”)_

he can’t make himself tell Lucifer about it. Even if Lucifer deserves to hear Sam yelling at him. Because Sam can’t forget what he did to Lucifer, that night in his old room. Can’t forget that _he’s_ the reason behind the raised, ugly scar on Lucifer’s wrist. The heavy darkness in his eyes when he looks at Sam, so despairing and sad. 

So he sleeps in his new bed, but one night he dreams about

_(hands clutching at him hot breath on his neck sam screaming and screaming and it won’t **stop** why won’t it **stop** )_

Azazel, and he wakes gasping. Grabbing at the empty space between his legs, and he’s hurtling off his bed before Lucifer can say anything. Rushing into the bathroom and shuddering as he leans over the toilet, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. Lucifer’s hand on his back almost immediately after, but he’s too numb to feel it. To really register Lucifer’s presence until he’s collapsed back against the sink, pale and shaking.

 _Sorry,_ he says, staring at Lucifer through his bangs, and Lucifer shakes his head:

“Don’t apologize, Sam. Don’t—”

They go back to their room not long after. Sam still shivering, his whole body feeling like it’s been shoved down with a leaden weight. The scars itching where the skin is trying to heal itself, stretched out pale and thin over bones. Lucifer’s hand comes out for a second, sort of hovering in mid-air like he wants to touch but isn’t letting himself, and after a few seconds he says:

“Goodnight, Sam.” So quiet, turning from Sam to his own bed, and it takes Sam all of three seconds to move forward, too. Resting his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder for an instant, the contact burning all the way through him, and Lucifer turns. Startled, though he tries to neutralize his expression immediately after. 

“Sam?”

 _Can I,_ Sam starts, and then gestures at the bed. Helpless, a little embarrassed. His mouth working, eyes downcast, but Lucifer just nods. Holds the sheets back for Sam, starts moving towards Sam’s own bed, and Sam grips his sleeve. 

_**With** you,_ he emphasizes. Tapping at the back of Lucifer’s hand, and Lucifer blinks. 

“Are you sure—?” he starts, and Sam nods. Firm, a little emphatic, and Lucifer exhales. His eyes sliding shut for a moment, odd expression crossing his face, and then he’s sinking down beside Sam onto the mattress. Laying back closer to the wall and Sam curls up beside him. Not quite touching, but the heat off Lucifer’s body twines around him anyway. Slipping under his skin, into his bones, and Sam sleeps harder that night than he has in months. Wakes with the sun shining on his face, Lucifer sitting in a chair beside the bed, flipping through the astronomy text he gave Sam at the beginning of everything. Back when their relationship was still fresh and new and uncertain, when Sam wasn’t afraid to fall asleep or go outside alone. 

_Good morning,_ Sam says, watching Lucifer through sleepy half-shut eyes, and Lucifer signs it back, careful movement of his hands against the book. Looking strangely relieved, as if he was afraid Sam might not speak to him upon waking. As if it wasn’t Sam’s decision to crawl into his bed last night.

“Was it,” Lucifer starts, hesitant. Clears his throat and drums his fingers against a grainy photograph of Jupiter. “Did you sleep well last night?” Though the tone of his voice suggests what he’s actually asking: _were you comfortable enough last night to want to continue?_ and Sam feels the sudden urge to smile. First time in months he’s wanted to, and it’s startling, how fast he has to bite it back. 

_Yes,_ he tells Lucifer, and afterwards, he almost never sleeps in his own bed. Preferring to crawl into Lucifer’s, into the warmth and softness of his sheets. Surrounded by his familiar scent, roses and jasmine and some spice Sam can’t name, and Lucifer. Lucifer never protests, not once. Never touches, either, not in that closed dark intimacy, and Sam closes his eyes and starts to relearn how it feels to be safe. 

There are visits to the rose garden, too. Lucifer giving Lilith the management on busy days, taking Sam outside. Where the air’s gone fresh and scented, birds singing, the sun shining slanted and soft in the trees. Everything sort of quiet, a feeling like the world’s been suspended for them. They wander in one afternoon about a week after Sam was released from the hospital. Sam’s balance starting to get better, despite the lack of anything between his legs. Feeling a little restless cooped up inside the brothel and he’s delighted at Lucifer’s suggestion. Both of them walking in silence down the familiar path to the garden, Sam running his fingers along the trellis, rustling the branches.

They sit on one of the cement benches just inside, looking at the roses. All twisted up over each other, growing wild and reckless in Lucifer’s absence.

 _It’s beautiful, Luce,_ Sam says, and, _I forgot how much I loved it out here._

Lucifer is watching him, head tilted a little to the right. Small sad smile on his face, eyes on Sam’s hands. “We can come out here more often, if you like,” he says, and Sam nods. Can’t quite make himself reach out to touch, but he moves closer. Until he can feel Lucifer’s body heat, even out here, and they sit like that for a long time. Until the sun’s started to dip behind the horizon, and the clients arrive for the evening.

Lucifer takes Sam places. The courtyard and the rose garden, but also out. Gets Thaddeus to drive them in the steam-powered carriage until they’ve reached the moors, wild overgrown plains covered in heather and swaying grass. Airships rolling over from time to time, all lumbering and slow, and both of them sit out in the dirt, or lay on their backs, watching the sky. Brilliant shade of blue, almost the same color as Lucifer’s eyes, and it’s always so quiet, there. Nothing said between them, though sometimes Sam can feel his chest going tense with words he wants to say but can’t quite grasp, and it’s pleasant. Peaceful. Sometimes Lucifer brings a book of poetry out, Keats or Byron or Rimbaud, and he reads to Sam in the still of the afternoon. Sam resting his head near Lucifer’s free hand, eyes half-shut. Drifting in and out of sleep as Lucifer’s voice cascades over him, familiar and low, and Sam forgets, for long stretches of time, that he’s 

_(damaged)_

still got a long way to go, in recovery. That this is only the beginning, and Lucifer’s sticking around _now._ When things are fresh and raw in his memory, but Sam knows. He just _knows_ that once it gets difficult. Once Sam’s muscles have started developing properly again, and his twelve-week hiatus from waiting tables is up—Lucifer will avoid him again. It’s just what Lucifer does, and Sam supposes he shouldn’t begrudge him of it. Not when he doesn’t think Lucifer’s doing it on purpose.

He doesn’t want to enjoy Lucifer’s company, knowing that he’ll just leave him again. But he can’t help it. Drawn in like a moth to a flame, magnetic eternal connection between them, the way it’s always been, and Sam can’t resist his own feelings. Vague resentment and that strange unchecked wish to just _scream_ at Lucifer for everything he put Sam through stifled by Sam’s relief at Lucifer not ignoring him. Lucifer’s constant presence a balm, soothing over his fevered skin. A little smothering, at times, the way Lucifer rarely leaves Sam’s side now, but. It’s better than what they had before. Better than it’s been since Sam came back from Michael’s, so many months ago now. 

He trains, too. Little exercises to help his muscles, the ones Casey showed him on the paper. Nowhere near ready to dance but he finds himself walking steadier. Growing less and less dizzy as he moves from one part of the brothel to the other—though he tires more easily than he used to. Finds himself able to hold down larger portions of food, as well—though he still hates to eat for very long, the food sitting heavy and thick on his tongue, clogging up in his throat.

There’s something odd happening to his body, without his permission. Coming on in slow increments; Sam first noticing in the mirror how his cheeks are thinning out, different than when he was starving himself. His muscle tone coming back more sinew than thick, his features growing slighter, more delicate. Sam doesn’t want to focus on it right now, but it’s getting in the way of his recovery. His exhaustion during exercise sessions. Sudden flashes of heat and cold sweat in the middle of the night, so that Sam kicks off the blankets, his clothes drenched. Waking Lucifer, who puts his hand on Sam’s forehead

_(“Nightmare?” his voice gentle and quiet in the dark, and Sam shakes his head. Considers telling Lucifer what woke him, but he wouldn’t know how to explain it, so he keeps his hands still against his thighs.)_

feeling for a fever. His expression going tense and worried when he doesn’t find Sam’s skin any warmer than usual, and Sam wants to tell him not to worry, but he knows Lucifer will anyway. 

His hair is growing back lighter too, not on his head but on the rest of his body; coming in finer and paler than before, and it makes his scars stand out more as a result, all thick and red and angry against his skin. So that it gets harder for him to hide them no matter what he wears, and when Lucifer notices, he schedules an earlier appointment for Sam with Alastair than their usual weekly check-in. Sits with him in the hospital, mouth tightening at the amused expression on Alastair’s face when he reveals Sam’s body is going through “hmm, _severe_ hormonal imbalances, due to the castration.” 

“It won’t stop?” Lucifer asks, and Alastair just snorts, shakes his head. Leaves both of them sitting there, Lucifer furious and Sam marginally worried:

 _I’ll end up looking,_ he starts, and then stops, his hands shaking badly. Has to wait for a second before he can finish, Lucifer watching him the whole time, concerned upset look on his face. _I’ll end up looking like a freak,_ Sam says, and Lucifer shakes his head immediately. His own hands coming out and then jarring to a halt in mid-air, like he wanted to touch Sam but had forgotten some rule he has with himself. Though Sam wishes he _would_ forget, if only for a second.

“You won’t,” Lucifer assures him. “You won’t look bad, Sam.” _You’ll look as beautiful as you do now,_ he says, very hesitantly, with his hands, and Sam doesn’t try this time to hold his smile back. 

So he recovers, slow. Lucifer always right by his side, quiet and watchful, and Sam catches himself staring at Lucifer’s scars, sometimes. Remembering the weight of the knife in his hand, the shocked horrified look in Lucifer’s eyes the night Sam tried to kill them both, and he wonders why Lucifer has chosen to forgive him. 

Wonders too, in vague half-formed terms, if he can ever forgive Lucifer for leaving him.


	29. Chapter 29

“You look gorgeous, Sam,” Ruby says, and Sam tries to smile at her, but it comes off shaky. As nervous and nauseous as he feels inside, and she sighs, folds her arms.

“You know Lucifer isn’t going to make you do this if you don’t want to,” she says, and Sam shrugs. 

_I know,_ he says, writing the words for her on his tablet, and then Lucifer shows up. Leaning against the wall behind Ruby, and there’s carefully nothing in his eyes as he looks at Sam. As though he thinks he’ll send Sam into spasms of flashbacks by showing any hint of desire. 

“Sam?” Lucifer says, upward tilt of his chin, and Sam nods, and brushes past Ruby on his way out of his room. 

The scars on his hips are aching against the flex and pull of tight silk wrapped around his torso. He has no idea why he agreed to do this.

~

There was a shortage of dancers, which is how Lucifer came about asking Sam to come back to them in the first place. 

He’s been waiting tables for two months already. Coming out of his room only for a few hours, early in the evenings when the first clients show up: the richer ones, more discreet. The ones that ask for specific kids and don’t make a whole lot of fuss about anything except whether they want red or white wine with their dinner. Sam doesn’t feel comfortable around anyone right now—except Lucifer, of course, and Ruby—but these clients are. Easier to deal with. Less of a hassle to Sam, who still has to learn how to walk with nothing between his legs. The scar on his cheek shining plain and obvious no matter how dim the lights are, or how good Ava is with makeup. 

He’s a freak. In spite of what Lucifer told him back at the hospital, he knows he looks—wrong. Thin and more feminine than he used to—and Sam’s never exactly been the most masculine-appearing person he knows. Sweating and tired most of the time, just a dumb kid who still can’t stomach the smells of food wafting off the plates he serves. Who gets antsy in large crowds of people. Loud noises make him flinch, make his skin itch in violent angry waves for the knife, for just one more chance to carve into himself. 

He can just barely hold himself together, all shivery and trembling and wanting so much to reach out to Lucifer but knowing he doesn’t deserve to. Not after everything he did to Lucifer. Everything he put him through. The fact that he almost killed him weighing heavy on Sam’s chest, the guilt of it crushing back anything he wishes he could say. 

But there’s a shortage of dancers. Some pox breaking out in the younger kids’ wards, one boy rumored to have a disease on his crotch of some type, and Sam’s the only one young enough and experienced enough with this to step in at the last minute. 

_You can say no,_ Lucifer had told him, when he first asked. Leaning stiff against Sam’s doorway, mouth thin, uncomfortable. _If you’re not ready, Sam. You don’t have to do anything._

Sam had shifted on the bed. Ran his hand down the scar scrunching up the pale inner side of his left forearm. Where he has to press down extra hard now if he wants to feel anything at all. _I’ll do it,_ he said, fingers flexing uncertain in the air. _But **just** dancing. Luce. I’m only gonna dance._

_Whatever you want, Sam,_ Lucifer had said immediately, like he would sign Sam’s release forms right then and set him out into the real world if Sam asked, and Sam had to work hard at not crying. 

~

They head downstairs together. Past Abaddon’s suite, where she’s setting up for her night—tugging the zipper shut up the side of her leather stilettos, tucking a switchblade knife into the heel. Flipping her hair over her shoulder and offering a salacious smirk to Lucifer, who ignores her, though he knows what it feels like to be at the edge of that blade. To have his fingers tucked into the wet heat of her while she scratches him raw down his shoulders. 

Ignores her and glances sideways at Sam instead, gauging his reactions. Watching a dim flush rise up over his neck and his cheeks, blossoming from under the smooth silk outfit covering most of his chest and all of his groin.

(Lucifer isn’t stupid enough to think that Sam’s castration wouldn’t sell—there are men out there that won’t fuck anyone unless it’s a fully castrated boy. Men that will stick their dicks between the pale thighs of some underdeveloped child and rut and fuck until they spend themselves dry. Sam in his new state could rake in twenty-five thousand, easy. One hundred thousand, if Lucifer could find some excessively lecherous older rich gentleman too curious and depraved to pass up the offer.

Lucifer also knows he would slit his own throat with Sam’s knife before he even considered that as an option.)

“You don’t have to—” Lucifer starts, for the tenth time that night, and Sam bites his lower lip. Tucking it under his teeth and then releasing, the skin all wet with saliva. 

_I’m okay,_ Sam says, but he’s shaking as he and Lucifer continue their descent. Past Lilith’s suite, where she’s already entertaining one of the favored clients of the brothel, her door half-open. Through the parlor downstairs, where the other children in Sam’s age group are already catching hold of clients, Meg and Hannah overseeing the transactions and exchanges of money before allowing them to go off for the evening. 

In the kitchen, the space between the parlor and the dining hall. Where hardly anyone stops or walks through, except Inias. In that place, Lucifer stops Sam. Brief touch of his fingers to Sam’s arm, and Sam’s whole body shivers. His eyes closing for a second, and Lucifer doesn’t know how he must be feeling. The first time he’s had real human contact aside from their occasional accidental brushes in almost four months, and he probably doesn’t even—Lucifer shouldn’t have—

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Lucifer hears himself say, drawing his hand back in a fist at his side, so he won’t be able to reach out again. “I just. I need to make sure—”

Sam has stopped directly in front of Lucifer. The bow of his neck a lovely little clean stretch of skin, smooth and soft-looking under the crush of dark hair. He’s holding himself so tense it makes Lucifer wince to look at him, at the hunched-in line of his shoulders, the grit to his jaw. He’s not looking at Lucifer, or at anything really, his fingers clenching against the kitchen counter as he stares at the wall in front of them, but he’s also not moving. 

_Yeah?_ Sam says finally, after a long time. Turning halfway, so that Lucifer can see both of his hands as he speaks, and that low flush has returned to his face. _What, Lucifer?_

Lucifer clears his throat. Realizes he never finished his sentence, too caught up in Sam, here and alive and with him. Something Lucifer never thought he’d have, not after that night. “Just that you’re okay with this,” Lucifer says, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

_For the thirty-five billionth time, Luce, yeah, I’m fine,_ he says, and, _Can we just **go** already, I don’t wanna be in there when they start getting drunk._

He’s all sarcasm and blunted hand gestures. Little snarky expressions coming from his eyes, first time Lucifer’s seen any of it in—longer than he can remember, if he’s being honest—but he’s _smiling._ Just barely visible curve of his mouth at the corners, smiling as he turns from Lucifer and heads into the hall that leads into the dining room, with its old-world elegant chandeliers, crimson-cloth covered tables, and stone pillars supporting the balcony that surrounds the stage. 

Lucifer feels that barely-there hint of a smile wash over him like a rush of cool water, and follows Sam in. 

~

They find success in Sam dancing. In a way they couldn’t find success in anything else, they discover a new side to themselves in this. Sam slowly begins to come down more and more, a few times a week, moves onstage with Cassie and Sarah and Drew and slides his legs and his arms under lines of silk and lace. His muscle tone building back up—though he’s still _smaller_ than he used to be. Lean and corded muscle but in a more subtle fashion, and he tries not to let it bother him as much as it did because he’s doing _well._ He’s dancing and he doesn’t have to fuck anyone and he doesn’t have panic attacks while he’s on stage performing and. 

And Lucifer’s started _looking_ at him again. Not that Lucifer hasn’t already been paying attention to him, ever since he got out of the hospital, but. This is different. More—

More the way he used to look at Sam, before. When everything was simple and good and Lucifer raising his eyebrow at Sam from across a room meant Sam was going to get a blowjob in five minutes. 

Sam knows Lucifer doesn’t realize he notices. He won’t do it outside of the dining hall, which. Sam thinks he should be hurt by that, except he’s still trying to work out whether or not he’s ready to stop being angry with Lucifer. Anger that’s been half-buried under his thankfulness for the attention, for everything Lucifer’s done for him

_(all the shit you never deserved you worthless whore tried to kill him tried to destroy him you don’t deserve him you never will)_

and the mixture confuses him, makes it worse. Makes him angry as he runs his hands over the scars stretched over his hips, down his thighs. Angry as he feels his heart beating under the long jagged scar creasing his rib cage in half. Angry all the time, like this new fiery emotion has come in to take the place of all the darkness and depression that had overpowered him for so long before. 

But he can’t show it, can’t talk about it with anyone. Not Casey, who has become something of a friend since Sam has to go to checkups with her so often. Not Ruby, or Brady, or any of the kids in Sam’s age group. 

_Lucifer,_ Sam will start, about half a dozen times a day, his fingers trembling over the word, but when Lucifer tilts his head, ready to listen, Sam finds himself unable to continue. 

He keeps having dreams where he’s screaming at Lucifer. Lashing out at him and yelling until his throat hurts, until the ache wakes him—tears stained across his cheeks—but awake. Awake, all Sam can do is channel his energy into the dance. Into eating according to the portion sizes Casey’s recommended. Into carefully concentrating in his and Lucifer’s room, when he’s alone, on speaking—though he hasn’t had any success, and he’s starting to think he should ask Casey to look at his vocal cords for signs of permanent damage.

He’s scared that Lucifer isn’t ever going to come to him voluntarily again. That the last kiss they ever shared

_(gentle and slow two nights before sam was left alone for the day and went foolish and unthinking into the orchard alone)_

is going to be _the last._ That Lucifer won’t ever curve his fingers around Sam’s wrist again. Or brush his hand across the nape of Sam’s neck when he’s tired. Or push his hair out of his eyes. Or. Or any of the million little things Lucifer used to do for Sam, back before Sam became

_(damaged goods)_

a faulty piece of equipment only good for Azazel to use when it was convenient for him. 

Worse still, Sam thinks he isn’t allowed to want Lucifer like that anymore. Logically he supposes it’s ridiculous to assume he isn’t _allowed_ to want anything, especially considering the fact that they’ve been sharing a bed every night for four months, but. It feels like he’s betraying himself. The way he aches for Lucifer’s hand on his arm. Curved around his fingers. On his cheek. 

_(Never knowing how late at night Lucifer strokes his hair back from his forehead as he dreams. Whimpering and shifting in his sleep and Lucifer wakes up the second Sam starts to move. Pushes the sheets down a little to give him some air and strokes his fingertips along Sam’s cheek, along the scar. Gentle slow soothing movement, quietly whispering Sam’s name, murmuring that he’s safe, that he’s going to be all right. Always dropping his hand the minute Sam stirs. Laying back on his side of the mattress, his eyes closed, and he aches, too; wishes it could be reciprocated but knowing he can never ask that of Sam. Knowing it’ll always be too much, and he loves Sam enough to give him that space. Will always love him enough to give him whatever he needs to survive this.)_

So the knife is gone, but Sam is still very badly damaged. Mute and touch-starved and fueled by anger, and once that’s run out, Sam knows he won’t have anything left.

He’s been dancing for almost a month when the annual auction comes up. The one that changed Sam’s life, changed everything about his relationship with Lucifer so long ago—and Sam’s been requested to dance at it. 

Not by any of the clients. There are certain rules the brothel abides by, and even the newest members know better than to suggest anything to do with Sam Winchester. But the other kids want Sam onstage—Ruby in particular, claiming he’s talented enough, after a month. Their best asset. 

“He’ll rake in so much—” Ruby starts, when she’s trying to convince Lucifer to say yes, and then stops at the look on his face. 

“He’s worth half a hundred thousand right now, easily,” Lucifer tells her, eyes flicking over Sam for a second, almost bored tone in his voice. “But I’ll slice those pretty pink lips off your cunt if I find out you’ve exploited him without his permission. Or mine.”

Then he glances at Sam again, and Sam doesn’t know why it makes him seethe, the way Lucifer is treating him right now. Knows Lucifer is trying to give him the space to make his own choice about this, but it has been five months since Lucifer held Sam in the hospital. Over half a year since Sam was raped and mutilated and ripped apart forever. Sam can’t close his eyes without seeing Azazel’s face. Can’t take a step without feeling his thighs chafe together, smoother every day. Can’t take a breath without remembering that his throat can’t produce sounds that aren’t screams of terror. 

Every second Sam spends alive is just another reminder that he’s a freak of nature, and Lucifer should know that, but he’s standing there acting as though he can’t even look at Sam. As though Sam has already fallen apart into disrepair, after all the nights and afternoons he’s spent _coddling_ Sam. Too hypocritical, too much of an abrupt shift—if Sam can sleep in Lucifer’s bed and wait tables and sit out in the rose garden for hours with him, he can dance at one auction—which is why Sam tells Ruby, angry as always, forcing Lucifer to translate for him, out loud:

_I’ll do it. I’ll dance at the auction. I won’t fuck. But I’ll walk the tables._

“Oh, Sam, _thank_ you—”

“Sam, what in the hell are you doing—”

_You cannot keep treating me like I’m going to fucking fall apart if you blink in my direction, Lucifer! Jesus Christ._ Sam glares at him, nostrils flared. Heated and furious and there’s so much he has to say, so many things to get off his chest, but right now all he has time for is: _I already feel fragile enough on a regular basis without this shit from you, too. Could you just. Could I just do this? It’s not like I haven’t been dancing every night for a month anyway—_

Which isn’t quite true, but Sam knows it’ll work anyway. Watches the fight just slide out of Lucifer’s shoulders. The exasperated, upset expression that sends a line shooting between his eyebrows. Pinches the corners of his mouth, his eyes. 

“I’ll be watching all night,” Lucifer says, flicking his gaze at Ruby once in warning, and she nods. Her whole face lit up like she’s going to the circus, but as she drags Sam off, beckoning him with her hand instead of touching, he finds himself unable to stop looking over his shoulder. 

~

They get through the first two days of the auction. It’s sort of a respite for the older prostitutes, the ones that are already owned—like Sam and Brady—or have their own suites, like Lilith and Abaddon. They lounge back and watch in vague amusement as the children try so hard to impress the clients. Lucifer walking each gentleman and lady through his parlor. His children’s suite. The pleasure gardens, where boys with eternally youthful faces like Dorian Gray drape themselves over the fountain, in between the rose bushes. Thaddeus following, writing down sums, estimates, and adding up figures in neat columns. 

Sam stays in his and Lucifer’s room for the two days. Curled up on his bed and shivering because the automatons who regulate the brothel’s inner workings are required to keep the temperature of the building ten degrees cooler when this many guests are present. Reading books without comprehending them and trying not to think about what’s going on downstairs. Have they sold off Anna Maria yet? Twelve, with her little pigtails and the shock of freckles on the bridge of her nose. The last time Sam saw her she was wearing high-heeled stilettos and trying so obviously to imitate Abaddon that Abaddon had actually taken pity on her and given her lipstick and a miniature whip to crack. Or Siobhan? Fourteen, same age as Sam when Lucifer started treating him like an adult, but she hasn’t had his education. She sings on Thursdays after Sam dances, and then an older man, mid-forties, takes her upstairs. 

Sam would be sick to his stomach, except he can’t feel anything. He’s just numb. Has been for years. 

On the third day, closer to the evening, there’s a soft knock at the door, and he knocks twice on the wall, his code for ‘come in’. Half-expecting Ruby to come in with some lacy getup for him to try on, or Ava with her pounds of makeup, but he isn’t expecting—

_Luce. Hey._ He offers up a shaky smile, setting his book down by his hip and standing. Dressed in soft loose clothes that hide all his scars, except the one on his cheek, and he’s never felt more self-conscious.

Lucifer stops just inside the door. “I brought your. I have your costume for tonight.” Holds out a thin box, covered in rich black velvet, and Sam has to walk forward to take it. Slips the lid off and pulls out his usual getup—red silk corset with lace tie-ins and lace draped strategically over his panties to hide his lack of, well—anything below the belt. Satin g-strings and stockings that run almost over his knees and a pair of stilettos that Sam’s sure belonged to Abaddon when she was about eighteen. He holds it to his torso and smirks at Lucifer:

_Oh, wow, what a change,_ he says, rolling his eyes, and Lucifer laughs, soft and amused rough sound Sam hasn’t heard in a long time. 

Then “Get dressed and meet me backstage in the dining hall,” Lucifer says. “You’re dancing for half an hour and waiting tables for the other half, and then you’re done for the night. Understand me?”

_Yeah, yeah._ Sam waves his hand, absent—and then freezes.

Because Lucifer’s caught Sam’s hand in his. Their fingers tangled up in mid-air and Lucifer doesn’t even seem aware of the heat bleeding between them. The static electricity pumping so fast through Sam’s veins he thinks he’s going to have a heart attack. 

“Sam, I mean it,” Lucifer says, all quiet and low like nothing life-changing is happening. “I will be there all evening. If you need me—if you need to leave for _any reason—”_

_Luce._ Sam squeezes Lucifer’s hand, kinda gentle, and Lucifer startles, staring down at their hands like he really hadn’t noticed before. _I’m okay. It’s just an hour._

He knows he’s supposed to be angry with Lucifer right now. But it’s really hard when Lucifer is staring at him like that, cautious and kinda confused and really soft—

And then Ruby’s voice floats up to them from downstairs: “Get a move on, assholes, it’s curtains in five minutes,” and Lucifer jerks his hand back like he’s been burned. Looking stricken, as though he’s been doing something wrong, something Sam doesn’t want as much as Lucifer, and just like that Sam’s anger and annoyance flares right back up. 

He takes a step back. Holds his clothes out again. _I gotta get dressed,_ he says. _See you downstairs,_ and he jerks his chin at the door. 

Lucifer ducks out immediately, shutting it behind him with a quiet little click. Sam strips, stares at himself in his mirror. The perfect image of someone broken repeatedly, until he can no longer fully hide where the cracks run. The faintest hint of stretch marks starting to form around the scars scattered across his hips and stomach. The scars where his genitals used to be all twisted up and red as always. His chest and arm and face all messes, sliced through and forever broken, and Sam’s skin itches badly as he slips his costume on, shakes out his hair. 

He doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing his scars tonight, or the dark circles under his eyes. These people are always looking, but all they want is a little hint of sex. 

~

The suites, the parlor, all empty. Disconcertingly silent as Sam walks his practiced walk through the kitchen and into the backstage area of the dining hall. Where Ruby is waiting for him, along with the other dancers. Sarah, in pale green lingerie. Cassie, in dusky orange leathers. Drew, wearing a dark fitted thong and steel-toed boots. 

“You’re the best-looking of the bunch,” Ruby whispers in Sam’s ear, before walking out to announce them. Embellishing their attributes the way only a prospective madam can: highlighting Cassie’s soft curls and cinnamon skin, Sarah’s full mouth and wide innocent eyes. The cruel sharp angles of Drew’s face and Sam’s long, long legs. So that by the time the four of them walk out into the overcrowded dining hall Sam is sure they’re going to be a disappointment.

He’s wrong. He’s so, so wrong. 

The auction-goers who bought children are exhausted from forty-eight straight hours of fucking and rutting, their purchases half-asleep on their laps, but the auction-goers who came away dissatisfied are well on their way to being drunk. Rowdy and full and excited and only Gadreel and Abner, the stone-faced security guards, are keeping them from mounting the stage and taking what they want. 

_(hands grabbing sam’s ankles pulling him down slamming him into the earth)_

“Sam,” Ruby hisses from offstage, and Sam stumbles mid-dance-step, manages to cover it as a pirouette. Glares at her, mouthing _what_ all impatient, and she rolls her eyes, gestures at him.

“You okay?” she whispers, eyebrows raised, but she isn’t looking at Sam, not directly. She’s staring over his shoulder, and when he spins again, there’s Lucifer.

Lucifer, standing directly at the foot of the stage. His arms folded across his chest as he watches the four of them slide their hands up their bodies and spin and twirl. Cassie on the pole, Sarah’s fingers sliding up and down the lace between her legs, Drew crotch-thrusting in the face of some desperate twentysomething businessman. But Lucifer is only staring at Sam. His eyes heated and narrowed and wanton and worried, all at once, and Sam’s heart jerks. Feels drawn to him, that magnetic pull as powerful as it always has been, and he takes one step forward, then another— 

Someone grabs Sam’s ankles, yanks him down, and it takes Sam a moment too long to realize this isn’t a flashback. Meaty fat fingers wrapped around his foot, yanking the stiletto off, running a path up the back of his leg. 

“They shave you here, boy?” the guy who grabbed him hisses, and Sam—pinned between the bottom of a table and the floor, his chest catching hard as he tries to breathe, cold sweat breaking out over his flushed skin—can’t make a sound. Whimpers softly, staring up at an unfamiliar round face, and he knows good and damn well that clattering noise is Lucifer trying to get through the crush and slick of bodies to reach Sam, but the man’s hand is already reaching between Sam’s legs, pressing in—

“What the hell, y’ain’t got no _cock?”_ the man spits, his expression darkening, something between lust and disgust, squeezing in _rubbing touching dragging oh god oh god oh god—_

Sam’s foot lashes out instinctively. Catches the man in the face, sends him stumbling back long enough for Sam to scramble to his knees. The back of his head is throbbing where he landed when he fell from the stage, but he has enough presence of mind to grab a knife off the table he was just under. So that when the man comes forward again, clutching his bleeding nose

_(“I’ll get you you little whore you fucking slut how **dare** you hit me—”)_

Sam is ready for him. All the anger he’s been feeling in constant low thrums of heat coalescing, temporarily driving his sanity away. All his inhibitions gone, and all Sam wants right now is to _survive._ To get out of here untarnished by yet another man, and as he lunges forward all he can see are yellow-tinted eyes, smell of cologne and peaches so strong in his nose he nearly gags—

The knife sinks in. Right into the fleshy soft part between the man’s fourth and fifth ribs. Sam twists his wrist, sinks it deeper. Teeth gritted as he shoves past the resistance of muscle and bone and flesh—

Right until Sam feels the blade sink into the man’s staggering heart.


	30. Chapter 30

Blood everywhere. Sam’s knife buried to the hilt in a man’s chest. Someone whose name he doesn’t even know, greasy-haired and insignificant. People screaming, courtesans blinking awake in their buyers’ laps and then promptly throwing up at the sight of the massive tacky crimson spread around Sam’s knees, smeared between them where he fell forward. Collapsing against Sam

_(gunshots echoing sam barely conscious but he feels azazel’s body slam into his soaked in blood so heavy crushing him can’t breathe can’t see can’t think)_

and his head knocks against Sam’s shoulder, last breath exhaled in a surprised _whump!_

Sam kneels there, frozen. Too shocked even to start trembling, though he can feel the build-up of it in his muscles, the way it’s edging along already cracked fault lines. His skin thrumming hot and slick with sweat from the crush of bodies, the push and pull of the frantic crowd Ruby is trying to settle. His anger still very much alive within him, built over weeks and weeks of desperation and loneliness and an ache so profound it has been a separate wound entirely from the visible scars already marring Sam’s flesh. Now manifesting itself in the murder of a fat patron, Sam’s arm working against him, and even if the man deserved it

_(fat sweaty fingers closed around his ankle sick corrupt asshole sam’s already had more than his fair share)_

that doesn’t mean. Sam shouldn’t have.

He’s clutching the man’s dead weight in his arms when Lucifer approaches, _finally,_ shoving through the crowd until he can get to Sam. Hands on Sam’s shoulders, gripping and tugging, and “We need to go,” he’s saying, rough-edged and bordering on panic in Sam’s ear. “We need to leave, Sam.”

Shock is nudging its way in through the broken edges, but Sam allows himself to be pulled up. To have the man removed from his front, Lucifer tugging them apart and jerking the knife out of his ribs before letting him fall to the floor again. A look of disgust twisting his mouth as he holds the blood-soaked knife away from his body, teeth gritted until Gadreel comes and takes it away.

Then Lucifer herds Sam out. Most people have gravitated towards the front of the hall, now, away from the stage area—Ruby directing them, with one eye on Sam and Lucifer—and they’re able to slip out undetected. Lucifer’s arm around Sam’s shoulders, firm hot weight soaking into Sam’s bare skin. Lucifer seems to have temporarily forgotten his rule because even when they aren’t in the dining hall anymore he doesn’t stop touching. Doesn’t take his hand off Sam as he leads him upstairs. Past the empty suites and into their bathroom.

“Shower,” Lucifer says, voice tight. As close to a command as he’s given Sam in years. “I need to take care—”

“Lucifer.”

Sam’s voice comes out hoarse. Uncertain and shaky and rough after well over a year of disuse, ripped up from his throat like it was still trying to cling onto some last desperate hope that Sam would never speak again. It hurts, some place inside rubbing sore with the flex of muscles, but Sam barely notices. Is barely even aware of anything except Lucifer, standing there, staring. Mouth open. Shocked. Shaking, just a little, the same way Sam is now. His heart slamming into his ribs, and he parts his lips, wets them a little. 

“Luce,” he says, quiet and careful, all ragged and broken, and Lucifer whispers:

“Oh, _Sam,”_ and when Sam stumbles forward, dizzy and exhausted, all that anger overwhelming him with its crushing intensity, Lucifer is already right there to catch him. 

~

“He stabbed him in front of almost four hundred people,” Ruby says, with this small frown on her face, like she’s thinking. “Everyone saw what happened—”

“Everyone saw a whore dancer not giving what he was asked for,” Lucifer interrupts. Vicious and snapping, and in his sleep, curled against Lucifer’s side with a fleece blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, Sam winces. The space between his eyebrows furrowing, and Lucifer immediately reaches out, smooths at it with his thumb. 

The three of them are sitting in the parlor on the sofa. Everyone from the auctions finally having cleared out, and it’s quiet in the brothel for the first time in three days. Sam’s clutching loose at Lucifer’s shirt under the blanket, his fingers trailing against a bare patch of skin at Lucifer’s waist, and Lucifer doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle this. Knowing Sam probably hates him but having Sam pressed so hard to his side, refusing to let go— 

_(“Sam,” Lucifer says, very soft. His fingers tucked under Sam’s chin, tilting his face up. Sam’s mouth working, moving over words he hasn’t spoken out loud in over a year, but the only one that comes out is Lucifer’s name. Quiet and awed and almost reverent, and Lucifer knows he doesn’t deserve it._

_“You should take a shower,” Lucifer tells him. “Go to bed. I. I didn’t expect the evening to go like this—”_

_“Makes two of us,” Sam mumbles, all rusty and hoarse, but he’s smiling. They both are. Lucifer’s mouth stretched and curved uncontrollably, unable to believe what he’s hearing. His boy, his Sam. Talking again. That voice, rough and rich and Lucifer never thought he’d have it again.)_

“So the fact that the guy was touching _Sam—”_ Ruby starts, her eyebrows lifted. Because there are rules here, at this brothel. No one touches the dancers unless they’ve paid well over the usual price, and far in advance. No one touches the newest kids until they’ve been broken in. 

_No one_ touches Sam. Period. 

Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose. “What people saw was a lot of blood and a faceless prostitute kid who wouldn’t spread his legs, Ruby. That’s all.” His jaw is set, mouth tense, and Ruby backs off, her hands held out. Placating, but Lucifer’s already turned his attention back to Sam. Stroking his hair, trying not to stare at the quiet lines of his face. To listen to the slow rhythm of his breathing. Sam, here. Alive and present and warm and.

_(“‘m too tired to take a shower,” Sam says, voice kinda creaky. “‘m pretty used to feeling dirty, anyway—”_

_“Sam—”_

_“C’n I—” Pause. Yawn, deep and exhausted, and Lucifer is suddenly reminded of how **young** Sam really is. How much he’s been through, in such a short amount of time._

_“Can you what, Sam,” Lucifer prompts, after a while._

_Sam blinks at him. The soft sweep of his eyelashes is getting a little more pronounced against his cheekbones. His mouth has a full red quality to it that it didn’t have before—before, and Lucifer tries not to stare. “Jus’ wanna—wanna be with you,” Sam says to him, sleepy, and Lucifer has run a children’s brothel for twenty years. Has pimped out thirteen year olds to sixty year old businessmen, has fucked seven whores in one day on a bet, has watched fifteen year old girls running naked across his lawn—but he’s never felt more sinful, more achingly raw, than when he whispers:_

_“Okay, Sam,” and leads him into their room.)_

“Do you at least know who Sam killed?” Ruby asks, and Lucifer shakes his head. Didn’t really get a good look at the guy’s face, to be honest, was mostly focused on getting Sam the hell out of there, but. It doesn’t matter who it was. A man tried to touch Sam, and now he’s dead, and Lucifer doesn’t give a shit.

There’s a soft knock on the parlor door and Sam makes a quiet little sound in his sleep, burrowing his face further against Lucifer’s chest. His fingers flexing in the weighted unconscious way of sleep-induced movement and Lucifer cannot believe those hands were stained with someone else’s blood half an hour ago. That Sam murdered someone tonight, and now he’s curled up against Lucifer, sleeping so hard his face has creases from Lucifer’s shirt.

“Come in,” Lucifer calls, ready to rain hell on whoever it is that’s disturbing his Sam from sleeping. 

The door opens a crack and Casey sticks her head through. “Alastair wants to see you,” she whispers. Cutting her eyes to Sam for a moment, and then she adds, “Alone.”

Lucifer glances at Ruby, his eyebrows raised. She shrugs, and Lucifer tells Casey, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Then, gently squeezing Sam’s hand: “Sam,” he murmurs, and Sam startles awake. Blinks heavy eyelids at both of them, his fingers tripping an exhausted sentence across Lucifer’s stomach:

_What is it? I was sleeping._

“I know, Sam.” Lucifer exhales, quiet. “But I have something to take care of, and you need to go to bed for now.”

_(Lucifer has extra clothes in their room for Sam. A pair of fuzzy slippers draped over toes that curl tanned and tiny into the carpet. Long flannel pajamas Lucifer normally wears every night to bed, long and draped loose over Sam’s wrists, pooling around his ankles. Soft fabrics tucked around Sam’s trembling frame._

_Lucifer walks into another room while Sam dresses. Only comes back when he knocks on the wall, the old way, and finds Sam swaying where he stands, yawning. His hands stuffed into the pockets of the pajama trousers._

_“You want to stay here?” Lucifer asks him. “Sleep?” Gesturing at their bed, fresh sheets and soft cushions, but Sam shakes his head._

Wanna go with you, _he signs, and there must be some strange expression on Lucifer’s face because he hastens to touch his throat, adds:_ It hurts to talk too much. I’m gonna have to ease into it.

_Lucifer nods. Walks forward and puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder, stroking his thumb along the line of skin showing under his pajamas. Sliding his hand up and against Sam’s jaw, and Sam reacts immediately, his skin jolting like Lucifer’s electrocuted him. Odd expression on his face as he leans into the touch, exhaling shakily. His eyes longing and hungry, and Lucifer finds himself consciously staring at Sam’s mouth for the first time in months. Wishing he could cover it with his own._

_Instead, he says, “If you fall asleep downstairs, I will carry you back to this room,” and Sam just snorts, shaking his head._

Bring it on, old man, _he says, soft little smile on his face, and holds his hand out for Lucifer to take.)_

Sam nods, all slow and sleepy. Stretches his arms a little, pushing up from the couch enough to reveal the lazy slope of his back as the blanket falls from his shoulders. The collar of Lucifer’s pajama shirt all tugged down around him, indecent amount of skin showing, and Lucifer has to look away. Only looks back when Sam nudges his knee, seeking his attention.

_You still want me in our bed?_ Sam asks, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. Making innocence seductive, the little faint smirk at the corner of his mouth suggesting he’s doing it deliberately, and Lucifer almost chokes.

“I—of course, Sam. Of course I do,” he says, fast, a little flustered, and then, to Ruby:

“Make sure the kids are secure for the night and you can go to bed.”

Once they’re both gone, he heads out. Through the kitchen and down the stairs, to the hospital wing where Casey and Alastair are both waiting—along with, to Lucifer’s surprise, Lilith. Casey’s face is pinched, her eyebrows drawn, and Lucifer feels a low curl of dread stir itself up in the pit of his stomach. The last time she looked like that, Sam was dying.

“Ah, Luci,” Alastair hums. “So nice of you to take time out of your—hmm, _busy_ schedule for me.” He’s sneering as usual, his face twisted. Lilith just looks amused. 

“What the hell is all this about, Alastair?” Lucifer asks. Tired. Scraping a hand down his face. He feels like he’s been awake for days. Auctions leave him drained, every year. Having to watch his best children get sold to greasy-fingered fat fucks who will probably die in a year from eating one too many pies anyway. Doesn’t matter how much money he rakes in from the whole thing, less prostitutes here means less business for the brothel until the newest batches of kids come in, and Lucifer hates having to double everyone’s work shifts. Every year, such a hassle. 

All he wants is to fall on his bed and sleep. To listen to the soft shifting sounds of Sam curled up beside him, knowing he’s safe for another night. Not standing down here, Alastair less than a foot from him, sardonic amused expression on his face as he says:

“That man your little favored slut killed—he was, how shall I put this, hmm—somebody _important.”_

“Someone famous?” It’s rare, but not unheard of, for the more well-known politicians and celebrities to visit Lucifer’s brothel. Most of them prefer going to brothels in the city, full of grown women who can cater to their needs without it seeming unnatural, but there are a few. Occasionally. Ones that know how to evade being found out. Or who have the money to keep their visits out of the newspapers. 

Alastair nods.

Lucifer just stares at him. “So pay his men to keep it quiet,” he snaps. “Why are you wasting my time with this?”

“Because, Luci,” Alastair’s hand clamping down around Lucifer’s shoulder, so that he has to tense up his muscles to prevent himself from flinching, “there’s probably going to be a police investigation. I’m not used to having to cover for whores that kill their clients—”

“Get used to it,” Lucifer interrupts. Voice a soft snarl as he wrenches his arm from Alastair’s grip, backs up. “Call whoever you have to. Sam will not suffer because of what he did tonight. I won’t allow my business to suffer because you have someone with a recognizable face in your morgue.” 

Lilith steps forward. “We have an ultimatum for you, Luci,” she says, and he raises his eyebrows at her:

“You don’t give any kinds of _ultimatums,_ you whore. I tell you what your job is and you spread your legs and keep your fucking mouth shut unless they ask for it open—”

“Alastair and I are asking for ownership of the brothel,” she interrupts, and for a moment Lucifer is startled into silence. Blinking at her audacity; she may have been one of the first he recruited, his number one in ranks and certainly the most capable of running this place in Lucifer’s absence, but she’s still just a prostitute, in the end—

“Well,” she amends, “I’d want to be the one in charge. But Alastair stays with me. Abaddon, too. That little slut you used to fuck before your precious Sam came on, what’s her name, Ruby?—”

“Is there a point to all of this, Lilith,” Lucifer says, dragging his fingers down his face. Feeling his hand shaking with barely suppressed fury at the idea of losing his brothel, his livelihood, his main source of income—

She says, “You give me the brothel, leave with Sam, and Alastair and I will ensure his anonymity in this murder remains intact. If you refuse—”

“If you refuse,” Alastair cuts in, still smirking, “I’m afraid my silence will become—hmm, less valuable to me than the reward I’ll be offered for turning poor young Sammy over to the authorities.”

“I’ve fucked a lot of policemen in my time here,” Lilith says. With her fingers twirling around in her lace slip, red mouth curved and highlighting the flat cruelty simmering in her eyes. “They’d be all too happy to turn their monthly visits into investigations if I asked them—”

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you,” Lucifer snarls. His nails digging into the meat of his palm as he stands there and stares at both of them, Casey still looking sick and stricken in the back. “You think you have the right to bargain for Sam’s life like this—”

“Oh, please, Luci,” Lilith says. “As if you haven’t been giving me the run of the place most nights anyway.” She steps forward, enough so that he can smell her perfume, barely masking the thick salty odor of sex. “You know I’m good enough,” she murmurs. Her hand coming forward like she wants to touch, and he takes a step back, his nostrils flared. “And really—after everything you’ve already put him through—” she glances over at Alastair, blink-and-miss-it move that rails something suspicious up Lucifer’s spine, something itching at the back of his mind that he can’t quite put his finger on—“can you imagine little Sammy in prison?” 

“I’m guessing he wouldn’t fare a week there,” Alastair says, “not after the way he reacted so—hmm, _unfavorably_ with Azazel,” and it clicks for Lucifer, right then, what they did. 

_(let azazel in waited until lucifer was already gone and helped him sneak in probably told him exactly where sam was probably watched him leave out the back door)_

He lunges forward. Wraps his hands around Lilith’s throat, ready to choke her to death, to strangle her with her pearls, with her own hair. His muscles braced and tense, fingers sunk in against her rapid pulse. The adrenaline in his veins is thrumming hard and hot and he’s sure she can _feel_ his rage—

Except then there’s something cold pressing against the back of his neck. Nudging into his hairline, sleek frozen iron, and “Luci,” Alastair says. Soft shifting metallic sound that Lucifer knows is him thumbing off the safety. “You may want to—hmm, rethink this.” With the gun shoved against Lucifer’s skin, Alastair’s breath hot and quick in his ear.

Lilith says, hoarse and ragged, “If you kill us, there’s no one else who’s gonna be able to cover for what Sam did. No one is going to—ah— _care_ enough.” 

He breathes in. Thinks of Sam upstairs, waiting for him. Quiet and warm and terrified after everything that’s happened this evening, and his grip relaxes, allowing Lilith to stumble backwards. Alastair dropping the gun from Lucifer’s neck instantly, the safety clicking back on. Lucifer furious and humiliated because he _should_ kill them. Both of them. He could do it right now, could grab the gun from Alastair and shoot them both and no one would miss either of them—

But Sam needs him. Sam needs him _alive._

Alastair says, “We can see this is a—hmm, _very_ difficult decision for you, very—mm, _emotional_ —we respect that.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You have until tomorrow, Luci,” and Lucifer turns immediately away. Heads back up the stairs without looking at either of them again.

Sam is in their room, scrunched down under the covers on their bed. Soft tufts of hair sticking out, splayed over the pillow. His fingers digging into his sheets as he sleeps, and Lucifer pauses in his doorway, watching. Moonlight plays across the mattress, the floor, stripes of it from the blinds on the window. There are books scattered across one side of the carpet from days Sam spends up here reading—his sign language guide, battered copies of Shelley and Coleridge, his favored ancient Egyptian facts tome—and clothes draped over furniture and Sam is a _teenager._

It hits Lucifer like that, just sudden, built up over the whole evening but it _rattles_ him. Thinking about Sam, only seventeen and raped twice and attempted suicide, Sam who is suffering so _much,_ and Lucifer hasn’t even been able to talk to him about it yet. Sam, brave and lovely and sad and worn thin at the edges, and Lucifer knows, right then, that Sam cannot go through something else like that. He can’t. 

Sam will _die._ And Lucifer is no longer capable of pushing him away to make it hurt less.

Sam shifts under his sheets, asleep but stirring, and Lucifer backs out of the doorway. Into the main area of the suite, teeth gritted, and he sinks down onto the sofa, hand in his hair, thinking. 

By the time the dawn breaks over the horizon, all soft oranges and pinks and lilacs, Lucifer has made up his mind.


	31. Chapter 31

Something is going on at the brothel. 

Sam’s not an idiot. He can tell things are different, ever since he killed that man at the auction

_(fat awkward fingers groping between his legs no one touches him there **no one** )_

and he gets it, he does. He committed homicide in a brothel, after all, and in front of people, too, there are bound to be consequences

_(like lucifer kicking you out lucifer rejecting you because you’re too much now sam he’ll have to clean up your mess and you aren’t worth the repercussions)_

but it’s more than that. It’s not just the wary glances the other kids send him, the ones in his age group and younger, it’s the way the older prostitutes look at him, now. The ones like Ruby, or Meg, the ones that are on a more advanced level in the overall hierarchy. Uncertain and a little sad, and it’s driving him insane. Because they know he killed that guy, but they also know what happened with Azazel, and Sam didn’t think they’d have any problem understanding _why._

“Ruby,” he tries once, during rehearsals. His voice rough and strained, struggling to work, and she spins around in the middle of explaining a move to Cassie, glares at him.

 _“What?”_ she snaps, harried and impatient with him like she never is, and he backs off, hands up:

“Nothing,” but he’s hurt. Confused. A little miffed, when she brushes him off again after the dance that night. The other kids backstage gathered around in tight little circles, glancing Sam’s way every so often. Whispering, low undertones that make his chest tight, and he feels shimmers of anger threatening to break out again. Because they’ve talked about him for years but it’s different now, with this odd new tense atmosphere, and he can’t just brush it off like he’s been doing. Can’t ignore it, and it annoys him, this new unknown interruption to his normal routine. 

Even more so when Lucifer does it, too.

Sam sees him as he’s coming out of the dining hall, struggling out of his heels, hair in disarray, hanging in sweaty strands falling out of the haphazard ponytail he’s got pulled up in the back. Lucifer’s coming up from the basement—again—and they almost run into each other. One of Sam’s hands coming out instinctively to break his fall and he smashes his palm against Lucifer’s chest, feels the contact ricochet up his arm, blistering heat and static lightning even though Lucifer’s skin is cool even through his shirt. Shivering, trying so hard not to look at Lucifer’s face. Afraid of the exasperation he might see there, the flat neutrality that means Lucifer has given up. 

_Hey,_ Sam says fast, signing because it’s still easier on his throat, and Lucifer doesn’t mind. For now, anyway. _Sorry. Didn’t see you._

Lucifer shakes his head. “It’s fine, Sam,” he says, but he’s distracted, Sam can tell by the way his eyes are shifting over his shoulder. Resting on some invisible point on the wall behind Sam’s head, and Sam pulls his hand back. Hands set awkwardly on his thighs, because his outfit doesn’t have pockets, and he starts:

_What, Lucifer, what is it—_

“Sam,” Lucifer says, and he reaches out to tangle their fingers together so Sam will stop talking. Kind of pulling him in, tugging him closer until they’re sort of pressed up against each other in the middle of the hallway. Their hands crushed between them, and Sam’s head comes forward to rest against Lucifer’s collarbone on instinct, but he can’t help rolling his eyes. Because even with Lucifer’s palms pressed flat against his, even with their fingers slotted at the seams. Even with Lucifer _right there,_ Sam’s mouth almost resting on a clean smooth stretch of skin, it doesn’t make up for the fact that Lucifer’s doing it. Same thing that everyone else has been doing—brushing him off. Like he’s twelve years old again, disposable and 

_(useless)_

unimportant. 

“Lucifer,” Sam says, his mouth going thin, pinched at the corners. “You’re not—not telling me something. What—” he coughs, shifts his fingers in Lucifer’s grip. “Why are you doing this again?” 

Because they both know what the results are, every time, of Lucifer hiding things from Sam. Trying to keep Sam in the dark about things that concern him because he thinks it’s for Sam’s “own good”, and Sam always ends up hurt worse than before. Every goddamn time, and he’s sick of it.

But Lucifer shakes his head, the movement brushing his chin against the top of Sam’s head. “Later, Sam,” he says, and, “I promise.” 

The problem is that Sam’s heard Lucifer’s promises before. Knows about how much they’re worth, and even though things have been better recently, there’s still no guarantee they’ll stay that way. Sam knows he took a risk with killing that man last week, but if Lucifer decides he can’t have that much of a liability here—

 _(you aren’t worth the repercussions)_

Lucifer’s disentangled their fingers between them, but Sam’s hand shoots out, grabs his shirt to get his attention. Scared that he’s going to pull away entirely, suddenly desperate to know the truth. Biting his lower lip, annoyance reassembled again into fear, and Lucifer tucks his fingers under Sam’s jaw, tilts his head up. Raises his eyebrows, and Sam says, _I. This. You know I didn’t want to kill that man, right, Lucifer? You have to know that._

“I know, Sam.”

“So don’t—” he hesitates, swallows around the soreness. _Don’t kick me out. Please. God, Lucifer, I swear—I’ll be quiet, I won’t do anything you don’t ask, I swear—_

“Sam,” Lucifer murmurs. His voice gentle as he strokes Sam’s skin, but there’s a thread of harried tension there, too, and Sam’s heart won’t stop pounding. “I’m not going to kick you out.” His fingers slide through Sam’s hair for a moment, then withdraw, and he steps back a pace. “I just. I have things to take care of. We’ll talk soon.” He turns, walks away. Leaving Sam standing there, badly confused for long seconds. Body still tingling from Lucifer’s warmth, from his closeness. Wondering what Lucifer isn’t saying. What he could possibly have in mind, if he doesn’t want to send Sam away but refuses to talk to him. 

He heads upstairs. Ignores the reek of perfume coming from Lilith’s suite, the cries of pain from Abaddon’s. He strips his clothes off in their suite bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror. 

_(freak)_

His body is still changing. More and more rapidly each day, he thinks. He’s lost so much muscle tone in the past month that Lucifer’s had to ask Inias to fix him extra servings of food in the kitchen to make up for it. Not that Sam really cares, because most of what Inias cooks him is lean meats or vegetables, easy for him to choke down and digest, but. Still. His scars are showing up worse, vivid and stark against his pale skin, and his hands are— _delicate,_ for lack of a better word. Delicate and thin like the rest of him. 

He stares at his scarred, angular face, all sharp feminine angles and dusky tilted eyebrows in the half-light, and wonders if he’ll ever stop hating himself.

~

A few days later, Sam’s draped over a bench outside in the late warmth of the afternoon sun. Staring at the orchard in the distance, remembering

_(ripped up grass peach blossoms everywhere lucifer oh god where the fuck are you)_

that day in fleeting increments. Wondering when it’ll get easier, when it’ll leave him alone. If those memories will follow him forever, constant violent reminders of just how broken he is, and then he hears Lucifer’s voice. Drifting quiet and familiar over the lawn, coming from a window near the back storage room, and Sam slides off his bench, slips silently along the pathway until he can hear Lucifer more clearly.

“...to protect _Sam,_ Michael,” Lucifer is saying, sounding pissed, and Sam tucks himself up under the eaves of the brothel, knees curled to his chest, head ducked down low.

“He killed... I don’t know _who,_ it was someone famous, Heyerdahl didn’t tell me...” Pause, soft rough sound, Lucifer scratching the back of his neck, and then “Yeah,” he says. “People are gonna come after him, yeah. All of us. And I can’t... I can’t do that to him. Michael, you have—you have to help me out here. I don’t know where else Sam can go.”

Another pause, but Sam’s barely listening anymore. His fingers clutching at the brick siding of the brothel, hard enough that he’s scraping up his skin, tiny little rivulets of blood running down but he doesn’t feel it. Can’t feel anything. Or hear. Or see. Or think. Or fucking _breathe,_ because Lucifer. 

Lucifer is sending him _away._ He’s shipping Sam off _again._ Back to Michael’s. For good this time, probably, because of course now that Sam’s committed homicide he’s too much to handle. Too much of a liability for the brothel, just like Sam predicted. Lucifer will send him away and never speak to him again and then Sam will be just another ruined whore, just another bit of collateral damage, exactly the way he’s always known he’d turn out.

“Tuesday. Fine,” Lucifer says, before hanging up the receiver, and Sam rolls away from the open window and vomits into the rose bushes.

He doesn’t go back inside for a long time. Not until the sun’s started to slip below the horizon, the air cooling around him, and even then Sam postpones it until the sweat on his clothing dries. Sticking to him, stiff and uncomfortable, and he rises, slow, and heads for the door that leads back in through the kitchen. His legs shaking in their effort to support him and he has to hold onto the furniture as he goes but it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Not if Lucifer’s sending him away. 

Abaddon is in the parlor when he passes through. “Sam—” she says, frowning like she wants to chastise him, but there must be some expression on his face, something that shows what he’s feeling, because she stops. _She_ stops, and then he knows it’s bad.

“Where,” Sam starts, has to stop for a minute to cough and rub his throat, swallowing roughly. His vocal cords feel like they’ve been damaged all over again, like his throat might swell shut, weighted down with his grief, his anger. “Where is Lucifer?”

“He’s in the library,” Abaddon says, “but Sam—”

He doesn’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence. Just goes. Taking the steps two at a time, slow-burning anger fueling his trembling limbs. So that by the time he gets to the library he’s flushed, bright red with fury and he can barely see, can barely focus on anything except Lucifer, and his betrayal. Lucifer, who is standing in the middle of the room talking to Alastair, looking like nothing’s wrong, acting like he’s not about to just _dump_ Sam into someone else’s lap, like he doesn’t remember _every single thing_ that happened to Sam after the first time he pushed him away— 

Sam’s not aware of moving until he sees his hands gripping a china angel. Shape of a child with wings, wearing oddly sensual robes and holding a harp, and Sam throws it. Intends to hit Lucifer in the head, but it smashes to the ground instead, spraying white everywhere. Soft tinkling sound of broken expensive things as it scatters across the floor, and Lucifer and Alastair both turn at the same time. Lucifer looks immediately pained, familiar line creasing between his eyebrows. Alastair just looks annoyed. 

“We were _talking,”_ he says, “or is it your eyesight that’s been damaged now—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Sam snarls at him, all serrated edges and blistering frigid intent as he starts forward. Glaring at Lucifer, feeling the china crush further under his feet. Grinding it into the carpet until he’s a foot from Lucifer, less than that, even, and he says, _“Why are you abandoning me?”_

“Hmm,” Alastair hums, sounding delighted, looking even more so. “Trouble in paradise?”

Lucifer flicks his eyes over once. Looking tired, shipwrecked and defeated, but he still has enough command in his gaze to get Alastair out of the room. Mocking bows and serpentine smiles as he backs out, and then the door is shut, and Sam and Lucifer are alone. Surrounded by ceiling-high shelves of books, not just sexual in nature but historical. Geographical. Scientific. Sam knows there are cookbooks in here somewhere, but. That doesn’t matter. Not right now.

“Sam,” Lucifer says, very quiet. 

“No, no,” Sam snaps at him. “No, you don’t—” He breaks off, throat twisting, aching, and he rubs at what feel like swollen glands for a second before continuing, voice escalating the longer he goes on:

“You don’t get to fucking try and placate me. Or whatever the hell you were gonna do. I _heard_ you, Lucifer. I heard you on the phone with Michael. You’re gonna fucking give me back to him. After you. After you _swore_ to me you weren’t going to. You’re selling me out again because I got to be too much trouble for your fucking company, isn’t that right?”

“Sam—”

 _I thought you **wanted** me again, Lucifer!_ he signs, his throat feeling wrenched. Dragged through with rusted iron, serrated along the edges. This is the most he’s spoken out loud since. Since before, and he’s crying already, chest hitching with sobs. His hands can barely move, he’s shaking so bad. “You kept acting like you wanted to be around me again,” he says, vicious and hoarse and so, so devastated. “I thought. I thought you were gonna keep me here, or whatever, but I guess that was wrong—”

“Sam, would you just—”

“God, the last time you shipped me off I got _raped._ Or did you forget that? I lost my voice and I got slit open and I almost fucking killed myself and I don’t have a cock now but I guess—” he coughs, his throat rallying against him. Lifts one shaking hand and keeps going: _—I guess none of that even **matters** because your precious fucking **brothel** has to keep churning out expenses—_

“Sam!” Lucifer’s hands are on his. Gripping his wrists so tight, so close to the way he used to grab Sam. Digging bruises into his flesh, both of them breathing hard. Sam crying, the tears running down his ruined cheeks, and Lucifer not too far behind. 

“You _left_ me,” Sam whispers. Chokes on the words, his fingers twitching in Lucifer’s grasp, but he forces himself to continue. Because it’s been _months,_ and Lucifer needs to hear this. “I _needed_ you, Lucifer. And you were _gone.”_

“Sam,” Lucifer whispers back. His eyes falling shut, deep grooves appearing in his face. “I know, Sam. I know I did.” His fingers slowly loosening their grip on Sam’s wrists, falling down between them, but Sam doesn’t pull away. He’s shaking so bad he’s afraid that losing the support would mean falling over.

“Don’t you fucking send me away again, then,” Sam tells him, low and fierce. “Don’t you ship me off to Michael’s.”

“I’m not going to,” Lucifer tells him, and that—

That’s not what Sam was expecting to hear. At all.

He hesitates. Stares hard into Lucifer’s eyes, deep blue and rich and more familiar to Sam than anything, and he says, “What—”

“You killed some dignitary,” Lucifer says. Releasing Sam’s wrist to wave a hand, and Sam watches the careful flex of his bones and muscles moving under his skin. “They’ll be looking for him, and I. I can’t have you here, in danger of getting arrested. You. I can’t put you through an ordeal like that again, Sam. I won’t. I refuse to watch you suffer a fourth time because I was too slow to react.” His face is so close, tears shining in his eyes. 

“I will not push you away again, Sam,” he says. All shaky and hoarse and ruined, and Sam’s chest is constricting, too small for his heart all of a sudden. “I am sending you away to Michael’s, but the difference is that this time, I’ll be coming, too.” 

_Oh,_ Sam signs, very small, with his free hand. His heart still racing from before, throat aching and dry but he’s _relieved._ Feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest, all the things he’s waited so long to say, the words that have been shoving their way up his throat, sticking to his ribs. Everything out there now, and his anger feels washed-out for the first time in weeks. Secondary to his shock at Lucifer’s words; to the drained, exhausted, wrung-out portion of his body. Like he’s been fighting a battle upstream for weeks, and now the current has finally let him go. Released him, and Lucifer is _still there._ Still wanting Sam, after all this. Still wanting to be with Sam, and that’s the most miraculous thing he’s heard in months.

He asks, “You’re leaving the brothel?” and Lucifer smiles, all wry and bitter twisted up at the ground. 

“Lilith and Alastair will be keeping their mouths shut about what you did so long as I leave it in their hands—”

“Lucifer, you—”

“It was a question of your safety or my ownership of this establishment,” Lucifer says. “You cannot doubt which one I’d choose, Sam.” His fingertips smooth along the back of Sam’s hand, shifting his grip up a little, and Sam exhales, shaky. Turning his hand so he can twine their fingers together, bringing Lucifer’s hand up to lay flat against the side of his face, and he leans into the touch, his eyes sliding shut. Curling his body forward a little, and Lucifer takes the hint, and folds Sam into his arms.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. The end of an era. (Well, for now. There _might_ be another part coming later. We shall see.) Thank you all who left reviews, kudos, or bookmarks. I know I lost a few readers somewhere in there because of content, or because of the chapter lengths, but that's okay. To those who have stayed to the end, thank you. And to my wonderful, wonderful beta Hil, I must again give a huge shoutout for all the work she did. This fic would be nothing without her. 
> 
> I hope y'all have enjoyed, and I look forward to writing more soon <3

**_Epilogue - (part I)_ **

**_Tuesday._ **

Lucifer’s standing on the train platform. Watching the dirt-encrusted old clock above him, slow ride of its hands as it counts out the seconds to two-fifteen. One suitcase still resting on the ground beside him, the others all already packed away by Thaddeus in the train, and he can’t quite make himself lean over to pick it up. 

He knows he’s doing the right thing. Knows that it’s either the brothel or Sam, and there really is no competition there, but. 

But.

He’s losing the brothel to _Lilith._ Lilith and Alastair, leaving it wrapped up in their greasy greedy little quick hands. They’ll destroy it, his empire that he’s worked so hard to build, and he can’t stop his anger at that. Cannot believe that he’s been blackmailed by a common fucking _whore—_

The compartment where he and Sam will be sitting is facing the platform. Lucifer’s eyes cut down to it as he’s thinking, just instinctive little searching movement, and he sees Sam sliding in through the velvet-cushioned door. Carrying one of his bags over his shoulder, setting it in the rack above the window, and then. Then he looks at Lucifer through the warped glass. Presses his palm to the window, the skin stretching white. His hair falling into his eyes as he looks out, head tilted, the red line of his mouth curved up a little at the corners. Looking tired, the way he always does, but happy, too. _Content,_ for the first time since Lucifer can remember, and he feels something inside his chest collapse, the bitter anger and the thoughts of Lilith and Alastair giving way to something a lot softer, more pliable. Warmth spreading all through him, and he picks up his suitcase, goes inside. 

He’s fucked up. A lot. He knows that, and the idea that Sam could very well be dead right now because of him scares him shitless. Thinking of the last time they rode anywhere together—prior to Sam’s four-month recovery—the last time he and Sam were in a tight cramped space like this heading frantic and terrified for home

_(sam curled up and whimpering in lucifer’s lap lucifer stroking his hair blood tacky on his hands so much blood whispering over and over “it’s okay sam it’s going to be okay” barely able to hear himself over the white noise buzzing in his mind)_

and now. Now Sam’s standing in the compartment when Lucifer pushes the door open. Lounging tall and lean and gorgeous against the seats, his arms folded across his chest. Those dimples flashing as he smiles at Lucifer in greeting, and suddenly Lucifer’s having a very hard time remembering why he regretted having to leave the brothel behind at all. Not when it gives him this. Sam, his Sam, present and safe and alive and Lucifer sets his suitcase down, walks forward. Tilts their foreheads together for a moment, and Sam breathes out. His fingers coming up to curl in Lucifer’s shirt, and he thinks of how he very much does not deserve this. Sam’s forgiveness, his trust—any of it. Not after everything he did to Sam. The isolation, the way he ignored him, telling himself it was to keep Sam safe. Lying to himself, nearly getting Sam killed in the process—

“You’re thinking too hard,” Sam murmurs. His eyes open, Lucifer can just barely see the multicolored blur of them from where he’s standing, so close he can feel Sam’s eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. 

Lucifer’s mouth twitches of its own accord. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet, shaking his head. Feeling Sam take his hand, gently tugging them both down onto the seat. Curling up against him, his knees pressing into Lucifer’s thigh. Tucking his head farther down, nearly under Lucifer’s jaw. Both of them alone, _really_ alone, now, and Lucifer’s mind drifts for just a moment longer back to the brothel. Where Lilith and Alastair will be setting things up for themselves. Ruby and Ava and Hannah preparing the kids for this new life, clients coming in and paying to fuck and Lucifer will never get to go back again—

But he has Sam, now. He has _Sam,_ safe—really safe, for the first time since he’s been under Lucifer’s care—and he doesn’t care about anything else. 

The train lurches forward. Low rumble under their feet, vibrations as it moves out over the tracks. Lucifer feels Sam’s hand twitch in his, and he closes his eyes for a moment, and he smiles. 

~

At some point, Sam falls asleep. His head resting in the crook of Lucifer’s shoulder, forehead pressed to the side of his neck. Breathing out little warm puffs of air against Lucifer’s collar, his fingers twitching vaguely against Lucifer’s thigh, and he’s so relaxed Lucifer has to keep an arm around his waist to keep him from slipping off the edge of the seat. Staring out the window at the passing fields, feeling the steady beat of Sam’s heart against his side, and Lucifer finds that he feels calm. Comfortable. All that warmth still blossoming in his chest, and he stopped regretting having to leave the minute he got into the car. Knowing that Sam is going to be with him. A fact that isn’t going to change, not ever again—

It helps a lot, knowing that Sam doesn’t want it to, either. 

He shifts in his sleep, making soft little snuffling noises, and Lucifer finds his eyes drawn immediately down. Reaches up and brushes those loose hairs off Sam’s skin, watching the play of sunlight across his features. A scrim of gold caught on his temple, limning the scar that slashes diagonal and violent over his cheek. Reminder that Sam is _alive._ That he’s fought through so much just to _be here,_ and it makes Lucifer’s breath catch in his chest. Staring down at his kid, lightly stroking his thumb across the backs of Sam’s knuckles where they rest on his thigh, and Sam mumbles something against his collarbone. Slanted soft chameleon eyes opening, blinking for a second in confusion, stuck somewhere on Lucifer’s jaw, and then he says:

“Hey,” all sleepy and slow, voice thick, still a little hoarse. Flips his hand over and catches Lucifer’s fingers between his own. The two of them sitting together in their little train compartment, cut off from the rest of the world, the way they always have been. Even before either of them realized how deep their relationship would run, how they’d catch each other subcutaneously, burrow in deep, and never let go. Sam fishhooked into Lucifer’s life, just a vital part of him, and Lucifer twined so tight around Sam’s soul he can’t tell where they’re supposed to be separated. 

If they are at all.

“Hey,” Lucifer says.

Sam’s eyes flick to the sun, dipping down through the trees as they fly past the countryside. “Was I—” clears his throat. “Did I sleep for a long time?”

Lucifer shakes his head. Murmurs _no,_ feeling Sam’s hand still wrapped loose in his. Skating his thumb across the soft inside of Sam’s wrist. So that his radial pulse jumps up a little, his cheeks flushing, but he doesn’t look away. 

“Luce,” Sam whispers, the pink bow of his mouth so close, and Lucifer leans in on instinct, drawn forward, thinking _finally,_ thinking _at last—_

There’s an apologetic knock on the train compartment door, barely audible but Lucifer still jerks back so fast his neck twinges. Eyes shooting up, glaring, and it’s Thaddeus. Sheepish and a little flushed as he calls, “The train’s almost docked,” through the glass, before hurrying off. 

“Christ,” Lucifer mutters, watching Thaddeus walk down the aisle again. Feeling Sam still pressed so warm against him, fit just under his arm where he belongs, and he wonders if he could—if there’s still time—

But then the train stops, all smooth finesse and metalwork, gears and oil and chains, and Lucifer has to detach himself from Sam to get their bags. To go and make sure the carriage is here, ready and waiting to take them up to Michael’s. 

His eyes meet Sam’s as they’re walking off the train, separated by a few people, and Sam lifts his free hand, says, _Later._ Smiles, kinda shy and cautious, and Lucifer feels it swell in his chest until it breaks over, crashing and rolling and ruining him for anyone else for the rest of his life. 

~

Michael’s is still just as plain as Sam remembered. Just as cold and forbidding on the outside, all cement and gravel and barely any life to the structure at all. It’s overcast when they arrive, Sam and Lucifer climbing out the backseat, leaving Thaddeus to take care of paying the driver and collecting their bags, and Sam shivers, though it isn’t especially cold. Staring at all of it, Michael’s expansive grounds and his dull mansion, and he wonders how Lucifer could’ve given up what he had before. Just for Sam, to come live like _this._ Giving up his money and his establishment and Sam turns to Lucifer as they’re walking to the front door together, says:

“Luce—I. You. I’m sorry you had to leave everything—” His heart racing in his throat when Lucifer takes his wrist, makes him pause mid-step. So that they’re standing there, watching each other in the road, and Sam says, hesitant: _You had so **much** back home; you gave it all up for me, I’m. I can’t believe—_

“Sam.” Lucifer reaches out, pushes Sam’s hair off his forehead. His eyes keep dropping to Sam’s mouth, pained expression on his face, like he’s trying so hard to think of the right words. “You don’t need to apologize. It was you, and your safety, or the brothel. Nothing— _nothing_ —in all this world means more to me than you do, Sam.” He swipes his thumb across Sam’s cheekbone, and Sam swallows. Leans into the touch.

“I wish,” Lucifer starts, after a second, and then stops. His head ducked down, and Sam reaches up, too. He’s taller than Lucifer, now, hadn’t really noticed with everything else going on but he’s grown a good half inch, and it’s all too easy to tilt Lucifer’s face back up to his. To whisper:

“What, Luce?” all quiet in the still of the yard, and Lucifer sighs.

“Wish I’d done this much sooner than now,” he murmurs, and Sam ducks his head fast against Lucifer’s shoulder so he won’t see him cry. 

When they get to the front door, it’s Michael and Dean who greet them. Stepping out onto the porch, and Michael shakes Lucifer’s hand while Dean wraps Sam up into a hug.

 _“Damn,_ it’s good to see you,” he says. All firm and fierce, laughing a little when he notices how tall Sam’s gotten. Clapping him on the shoulder, his eyes only going for a second to Sam’s facial scar, and Sam finds he barely has to flinch away. Only a little tense at Dean’s loudness, at his proximity, and he says:

“Hey, Dean,” and grins at the expression on his brother’s face when he hears his voice.

Then Dean steps back from Sam, glares at Lucifer. “So,” he says, and Lucifer turns partially from where he was speaking to Michael. One eyebrow raised, half a question on his face as he flicks his gaze momentarily to Sam—

(You all right? _he asks, fingers moving against his hip, and Sam bites his lower lip, trying not to smile:_

I’m fine, _he says, and,_ You play nice, Luce. He’s my brother.)

“Yes?” Lucifer says, then, and Sam can hear the threaded current of barely repressed violence in his voice. 

Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna say it again, Lucifer. You really do not fucking deserve my brother—”

“Dean,” Michael warns, soft, as Lucifer glares at him.

“—but you brought him here. You’re keeping him safe. So just. Keep doing that, and I won’t kill you in your sleep.”

He isn’t kidding, but Lucifer snorts anyway, shaking his head. “I’ll do my best,” he says, looking back at Sam as he does so. His eyes soft, warm. Belying so much more than the sardonic tone he’s giving Dean, and Sam does smile, then. Reaches out and curls their fingers together, and Michael says:

“Let me show you to your room.”

~

It’s past nightfall, the stars dazzling and scattered across the sky, before the knock comes. Quiet and hesitant, as if the knocker doesn’t know he’s welcome, and Sam sets his book down. Turns the gas lamp on his side of the bed up a little, and he calls, “Come in,” swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. Hands clamped hard on his thighs but he’s still shaking when Lucifer opens the door and walks inside. 

His eyes flick over the room. High ceilings, beige carpeting. Just like Sam remembered, and he still hates it. Still can hardly believe Lucifer left his place for this, but. They’re here, now. Lucifer acting as the brightest point in any room, the central sun, and Sam thinks he can probably adjust. 

“Well,” Lucifer says, and Sam gets to his feet. “I, um.” Sam crosses the room, his throat working. Eyes burning with how badly he wants to cry, how _stunned_ he is that he finally gets to do this. “You’re _okay,_ Sam—” Lucifer whispers, hoarse, and Sam reaches him and fists his hands in the hem of his shirt. Tugs him forward, heart slamming against his ribs, and he kisses him. Slow at first, hesitant. One hand coming up to catch Lucifer’s jaw, to tilt his head a little. His tongue flicking out at Lucifer’s lower lip, both of them trembling.

Lucifer lifts his own hands, adjusts Sam against him. Until they’re both basically on an equal level, and Lucifer can deepen the kiss. Inch by inch, increment and soft but it’s never felt hotter, like they’re both burning up from the inside. Sam clutching at Lucifer’s arms, at his waist. Gasping as their tongues slide together, _tasting_ Lucifer, and he makes an incoherent noise into Lucifer’s mouth. Whimpering when Lucifer presses little tiny kisses to his lips, to his jaw. 

“Sam,” Lucifer whispers, over and over, against Sam’s mouth. As they stand there kissing in the center of their brand-new room, gripping each other so tight it almost hurts but Sam doesn’t care. He doesn’t _care,_ he has _Lucifer,_ he doesn’t need anything else. Nothing else for the rest of his life. 

He feels warm wet against his cheek. Reaches up to stroke his thumb under Lucifer’s eye, and it takes him a second to realize they’re both crying. Wonders whose tears are on his face. Decides it doesn’t matter. They’re _together,_ for fuck’s sake. They can share everything. 

~

_(Lilith and Alastair a week later, facing the police in their parlor. Lilith twirling her hair around her pinky finger, smiling salacious and false at the young deputy standing in front of her. Reaching out to adjust the lapels of his coat, and her smile turns into a smirk at how fast he blushes. Innocence is darling._

_“You haven’t seen this young man?” his companion presses, holding up a grainy old photograph of Sam. From before his castration, evidently, and Alastair shakes his head, smooth neutral expression on his face._

_“Not in—mm, a long, long time,” he hums, as Lilith runs her fingers down her favored officer’s arm. “Good little slut, but he’s gone. Very sad, wasn’t it, Lilith. Very, very sad.”_

_She nods, absent. “Not even sure which one that was, honestly,” she murmurs, flicking her eyes over to the picture. “But he’s disappeared, now. Sorry, honey.” Barely glancing at Alastair as she speaks, both of them amused and impatient for later. Champagne spilling onto each other’s bodies, caressing stacks of money. Sam and Lucifer both gone forever, and they’ll lie as long as they need to, so long as they can keep getting richer and richer.)_

~

 ** _(part II)_**

They’re lying together under a birch tree in the middle of Michael’s fields behind his mansion. Alone, and Sam’s shirtless. His head tucked careless against Lucifer’s chest, breathing slow, half-asleep in the afternoon sun. Beautiful and scarred, curved there in the grass like an offering Lucifer never knew he was allowed. Like a wild thing.

It’s been okay, living at Michael’s. Well, really Lucifer’s, now—Michael was all too happy to hand over the management of his place to his brother after their arrival, and Lucifer has since then changed it. Made it far less suffocating than it was, relaxed and refined and elegant in that old-world fashion only Lucifer can pull off. Food served daily, round the clock. Artists and photographers traveling to Leeds from miles off so they can spend an afternoon with one of Michael’s models. The ones that are still there voluntarily, although most of them have been replaced, now. The old ones leaving once they heard who was going to be in charge, a fact that amused Lucifer more than it insulted him.

Sam looks _far_ different than he ever has. Not quite fully female, not exactly male. His hair tied back most days, the slanted fox look of his eyes gone even sharper, sort of cold when he’s looking at anyone who isn’t Lucifer. His arms and legs taut with muscle, but delicate. A dancer’s body, and Sam’s trying so hard to be okay with it. To stop wincing when he glances in the mirror, because this is. This is just who he is, now. Far from the worst he could look, even with all his scars scattered across his body like violent and irregular constellations. Slow gain back of confidence, one step at a time, and Sam thinks maybe someday in the future he could apply at university. Attend small lectures at Oxford—an idea Lucifer approves of, and they spend some time each day going over Sam’s old texts. The ancient Egyptian tome. The astronomy book, worn and creased now but Sam loves it so much, all it means to him. To both of them. 

Their nights end in different ways. Sometimes with Sam stretched out on the mattress. Lucifer’s mouth pressed against the scar on his chest, or the ones lined along his hips. Sam crying at how _tender_ Lucifer feels, just there. How _careful_ he is, his fingers dancing on Sam’s skin, instrumental orchestrations conducted against Sam’s inner thighs as he mouths words into his flesh. Worshiping Sam until Sam drags him up and kisses him, hooks his legs around Lucifer’s waist and slots them together, slow tide drag and pull of their bodies. Sam shocked that he still wants, but he’s thrilled that he’s allowed. That he can have Lucifer, any way he can get him. 

Most times with Sam curled against Lucifer. His head tucked against his chest, their fingers tangled together as they talk. Or read. Lucifer singing to Sam, his chest vibrating with the music, voice surprising and sweet and rough, all at once. Sam detailing something new he’s learned in his astronomy textbook. Or from ancient Egyptian mythology, and allowing Lucifer time to comment on it. Both of them falling into a long conversation, lasting until the sun’s peeked its way over the horizon. Until Sam is half-asleep on Lucifer’s chest, Lucifer’s fingers twined in his hair. Sam feeling protected and safe. Warm. So in love, as Lucifer drops a soft kiss on his forehead before lowering both of them to the mattress. Letting Sam curl around him, all long limbs and tangled sheets, and they fall asleep like that, with the birds singing, the grass wet with dew. 

_I’m so sorry, Sam,_ Lucifer tells him, at least once a day. _I hope you can forgive me,_ and Sam touches their foreheads together and wishes Lucifer would believe him when he tells him he already has. 

Michael’s grounds are beautiful. Perfect for Sam and Lucifer to get lost in, to forget there’s a world around them. Like now, when they’re huddled together against the trunk of this tree, Sam’s fingers twined through Lucifer’s as he drifts in and out of consciousness. More trusting than he ever thought he could be again. 

And there are still nights where Sam can’t sleep. Still times when Lucifer’s touch is too much, and he lashes out without meaning to, falls in on himself and comes out of his flashbacks shaking and screaming, tears rolling down his face and Lucifer’s there with a bloody nose, gripping Sam’s wrists, begging him to come back, telling him it’s okay, he’s okay.

_(you’re okay sam i’m here i’m right here i’ve got you)_

And sometimes Sam has trouble speaking, and food still sits too heavy on his tongue, and he doesn’t like looking at his own reflection

 _(Sam in the bathroom one morning, rinsing his face off. Staring at the soft long curve of his eyelashes, the swoop of them across his cheek. The thin careful line of his mouth and suddenly he can’t stand it. Wants to wrap his hand up in the dishtowel, slam his fist through the mirror. Has to stagger out and down the stairs before he can, shaking. A little nauseous, when he reaches the first floor and smells breakfast cooking._

_He stumbles into the kitchen and finds Lucifer sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. Wearing soft flannel pajamas and sipping tea from a cracked china glass, and Sam sinks down beside him. Buries his face against Lucifer’s shoulder for a moment, inhaling his scent, and Lucifer reaches out. Touches his cheek._

_“Good morning, Sam,” he murmurs. And then, when Sam doesn’t reply: “You all right, Sam?”_

_Sam pulls back. Enough so that Lucifer can see his face, and he knows he’s crying but he can’t help it._ I, _he starts, too upset to speak out loud. Gesturing at his whole body, watching concerned lines crease around Lucifer’s eyes._ I saw—in the mirror—

 _Lucifer folds his newspaper down. Shoves it to the side, along with his tea and his plate of toast, and he tugs Sam forward. So that Sam is nearly curled up in his lap, and he brushes his thumb along the slope of his forehead. Across his bottom lip, down his neck. Kisses him, soft and gentle, on his nose. His cheek, right over that twisted raised scar. The edge of his mouth. Strokes his other thumb across the backs of Sam’s knuckles._

_“Beautiful,” Lucifer whispers to him, kissing him proper, with his hand tucked under his jaw, and Sam’s chest hitches again, but it’s for a different reason, now.)_

but for the first time, Sam thinks he’ll make it through. Thinks he’ll survive everything that’s been thrown at him. Wakes up in the mornings and sees Lucifer sleeping beside him and he thinks, _I’m lucky,_ and he means it.

In the fields, under the tree, Sam signs _I love you_ against Lucifer’s chest, and Lucifer catches his hand and mouths it back against his palm.


End file.
